The Peruvian Affair
by S. Faith
Summary: A December spent out of the snow and grey of London… in a place where anyone might fancy herself a treasure hunter of sorts. Seven parts in all.
1. Chapter 1

**The Peruvian Affair**

Part 1 of 7

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 36,242 (This part: 4,350)

Rating: M / R

Summary: A December spent out of the snow and grey of London… in a place where anyone might fancy herself a treasure hunter of sorts.

Disclaimer: Isn't mine, except for the bits that are, and you know what I mean by that.

Notes: Aw, come on. Who doesn't like a treasure hunt? =D

* * *

**Chapter 1.**

_A Thursday in late November_

There were definitely points on the globe that were father away from London (like, for example, New Zealand), but travelling fifteen plus hours by plane to Lima was certainly no daytrip. However, when one is requested to travel to the far ends of the globe by the Peruvian government, one does not tend to refuse.

She took the news better than he expected she would.

"Why Peru?"

As if Peru were some random destination chosen from a map with a dart.

"Because I've been asked to be present to witness the signing of a very important accord, as well as make all of the arrangements beforehand."

"And you have to go?"

"Well, no, I'm not required to go—"

"Then don't."

One of the things he loved about her (which also happened to be one of the things that frustrated him to no end) was the way she had of cutting to the chase, attempting to oversimplify very complex matters. "No one is more familiar with this issue than I am, darling," he replied. "You remember Mr Santiago, don't you?"

Obviously struggling to recall, her eyes blinked very rapidly. "Not really," she admitted.

"Peruvian Secretary for Trade."

Still no recognition.

He elaborated. "The man who bade you speak at the conference you interrupted just after you returned from Thailand. And was so keen to reiterate to me that my girlfriend was a lesbian."

At that she flushed practically crimson. "Ah. _That_ Mr Santiago."

He chuckled.

"But Mark," she continued. "You'll be gone so long."

"I _will_ be gone so long," he admitted. "But at least I'll have you to keep me sane."

"You'll have—" she began, then stopped when his meaning filtered through. "Me?"

At this he outright laughed. "Yes, my darling Bridget."

Her face bloomed with a slow, shining smile. "I've never been across the Atlantic before. Or over the Equator." She ran to him and hugged him tightly, then pecked a kiss on his lips. "When do we leave?" she asked excitedly.

"Monday."

"Mark!" she exclaimed, horrified. "Four days to get ready?"

"I promise I only just found out myself." He smirked. "Besides, if you had more time to get ready you'd bring half the house."

She pursed her lips and frowned at him. "What if I forget something really important?"

"Like your swimsuit?"

She looked completely blindsided; her mouth formed an O, previous argument forgotten. "It's summer there, isn't it?"

"It is."

"Oh," she said, sounding deflated.

"What?"

"I'm not ready yet for swimsuit season."

He laughed again; she looked really offended, so he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. "I'm only laughing," he said, "because I think you're already—"

"Yes, yes," she said, pouting. "I know what you think. And I think _you_ are biased."

"I cannot deny that I am," he said, his hands on her hips. She tried to maintain the insulted demeanour, but he saw the corners of her mouth raising ever so slightly. "But I'm also right."

"And here I thought you were above obvious attempts at flattery," she said haughtily.

"Did it work?"

She sighed. "It always does, I'm afraid." She then smiled broadly and kissed him again, squeezing him in her embrace; he returned the favour, practically lifting her off of the ground.

"So," she asked as the embrace broke apart, grinning still. "How long is the flight?"

One of the first things he'd considered in bringing Bridget—not that there ever was a question of whether or not to bring her—was the length of the flight. He knew he had his work cut out for him in making sure she would not be bored stiff during their time in the air; he'd thought it'd be rather like trying to find ways to entertain a small child on a long trip.

Not that he would ever say so to her directly.

"Around sixteen hours total," he said. He watched her jaw drop again.

"Blimey," she said. "That's longer than the trip to Thailand."

"We'll be flying first class," Mark reminded, "and sleeping for a good portion of the flight."

He saw her smile subtly again. "Of course we are." Her expression became thoughtful once more. "Where are we staying? Which hotel have you booked?"

"No hotel," he said. "We're staying as honoured guests of Mr Santiago and his family. Well. His wife."

Her brows rose in surprise. "That's awfully kind."

"He was quite taken with you," he said teasingly.

The next few hours saw her making all kinds of lists, as she was wont to do, adding items then striking them out. He was beginning to wish he'd told her the night before departure, though surely she would have murdered him in his sleep.

"Shall have to stock up on all the latest issues of _Hello!_, et cetera," she said as she concentrated on her list, more to herself than to him. "Hmm. Must also find passport. And jelly mules. And oh! Where on earth did I put my iPod? Will have to get converters for the power plug-ins. And exchange money. We'll have to do—"

"Bridget," he said abruptly, interrupting her, when he could take it no longer. "It's all well and good to plan, but must you do so aloud when I'm trying to read?"

"You could help me," she said, giving him a look.

"Already have," he said, flipping the page of the evening newspaper before glancing up. "I have flown for extended international business trips before, you know. Have already arranged money, power converters—"

"Will it let me charge my iPod, though?"

"Will what let you charge your iPod?"

"The power converter."

"If the plug end is standard, yes."

"And what about my passport?"

"It is in the fireproof vault."

"We have a fireproof vault?"

He laughed, set the paper down, walked over to where she sat, took the pen from her hand before he tugged her to her feet, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her passionately.

"Bridget," he said, his voice laden with amusement. "Shut up."

………

_Monday_

From the way Bridget was smiling pleased as punch as they settled into their seats on the plane, he was convinced that she had never flown first class before. Out of curiosity, he asked her.

"Oh!" she said unexpectedly, her smile drooping a bit before she caught it and held it in place.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"Well, I did. Once," she said, flushing bright pink, stretching her legs out in front of her, as if she couldn't believe she could; also as if she was looking to change the subject. "Can't believe there are built-in foot rests! Amazing!"

"Bridget, there's no need to be evasive about first class. Where were you going?"

She looked over to him, eyes wide, as if she were about to confess to stealing a biscuit from the cupboard. "Thailand."

Mark smiled. "The station plumped for first class?"

"No."

"You've been to Thailand more than once?"

"No."

He was becoming a tad annoyed that she was being so elusive. "Bridget, let's not have Twenty Questions. The less you say the more determined I am to get you to give me a direct answer."

She closed her eyes resignedly. "I spent the trip to Thailand in first class with Daniel Cleaver," she said, then looked to him again. "He pulled some strings to get me an upgrade." She smiled a very nervous smile. "Thought telling you would just upset you."

There was a flash of _something_—well, he wasn't sure what it was: Jealousy? Resentment that she had not previously told him?—but then it was gone, and he reached and took her hand, squeezing her fingers reassuringly. "Bridget," he said, "I know nothing happened because you told me so."

She sighed.

"Hell," he added, hoping to relax that smile, "I might have done the same just to get out of coach."

At that she chuckled and she leaned forward to kiss him. "I love you."

"Should bloody well hope so," he said with mock stuffiness. "I'm dragging you all the way to Peru with me." He cracked a grin, then raised her hand so that he could place a kiss on her knuckles.

The air hostess came by just then to prompt them to stow their bags for takeoff, which they did; he felt the plane begin to move, then taxi into position, and within a few minutes they were airborne.

Shortly after reaching their cruising altitude, they were provided complimentary champagne, which Bridget accepted gleefully, taking a long drink.

"Have to be careful with that stuff up here, darling," warned Mark, picking up his own flute and sipping. "The altitude will make it go to your head faster."

"It's so good though."

"It would be a touch embarrassing to have to haul your very squiffy self bodily from the plane on touchdown."

She scowled playfully before knocking the rest of the glass back. "Mark, we have fifteen-plus hours of flight. That's ages from now. I'm not going to drink steadily for fifteen hours. Chuh."

"Just don't want you to have a headache when we get there. Flying itself is dehydrating to a body, not to mention the time difference."

"Oo!" she asked excitedly. "Is it going to be night there when it's day back home?"

He chuckled. "No, love. Only five hours behind London time."

"Really? I would have thought at least same as California." She dug into her seat pocket for the in-flight magazine, found the map of the world, and sure enough, saw that Peru was longitudinally equal with the eastern coast of America. "Hm," she said, examining the map. "That is rather a long distance."

………

_Fifteen hours_, Bridget thought as she traced the line of the flight path with her finger, horror dawning in her. _Fifteen hours with no cigarette._

Of course there were times when she went longer than fifteen hours without smoking (since she liked Mark to believe that she'd quit), but on the ground she had always had the freedom to smoke one if she decided to do so. Faced now with the daunting task of surviving a fifteen-hour flight with no chance of a ciggie, she found she immediately craved one.

"It is," he said, polishing off his champagne, "so I hope you have brought plenty to do."

"I have," she said, recalling the endless pestering he had done in their preparation for the trip, "plus in-flight movies and I do intend on sleeping as well."

"Wonderful," he said, reclining and opening the newspaper he'd brought in his attach√©.

"How about you?"

He froze, then looked to her. "Me?"

"Well, that paper's only going to last so long," she said.

Judging from his expression he clearly had not given this any consideration at all. "I…" He turned his eyes away. "I'll review my papers."

"You didn't bring anything else, did you?" she said, grinning madly.

"I'm not as easily bored as you are," he said, returning to the paper. "Plus there's the in-flight movies."

"I am not easily bored," she said.

"You are," he replied. "And when you're bored you harass me." He looked up again and offered a wink.

"I don't usually hear you complaining when I do," she said teasingly.

"We're not usually trapped on an airplane with no chance of complete privacy," he responded coolly.

_Bloody man_, she thought, making a sound of defeat as she sat back in her seat, _unnervingly and frustratingly always right._

She tried to read her magazine, tried flipping through the programming available through the personal video screen, but she found she was feeling too fidgety to concentrate on anything.

"You all right?" he asked, perusing through one of her magazines. She could hardly believe he was reading _Hello!_. The amusement distracted her from her thoughts of smoking a fag for about ten seconds.

"Mmm, yes, I'm fine," she said. "Feeling a bit peckish."

"They should be bringing dinner by soon."

"Dinner?"

"Yes," he replied.

"What are we having?"

He set the magazine down. "Don't you remember agreeing to steak?"

She tried to rein in her features. "What was the other option?"

"Chicken."

She honestly had no memory of agreeing to anything.

The air hostess brought their dinner of steak, mashed potatoes and green beans shortly thereafter, brought some red wine at Mark's request. The meal was really very good, on par with anything they could get in a restaurant.

"Bridget," he said. "You've been pushing around your last bit of steak for ten minutes now. Eat it or don't, but please stop that. You're driving me up a wall."

She popped the end of her fork into her mouth, eating the steak, then set the fork down on the plate with a loud _clink_.

"Thank you," he said.

Their plates were cleared away and she thought she might give reading another go when the cabin lights went dim.

"What the…?" she began.

"They do this," Mark explained, "so that people who want to sleep can do so. If you want to read just put on your own light."

"Don't really want to read," she said sullenly, closing the book and setting it down.

He chuckled. "I know what you need." He reached for her, running his fingers along her forearm.

She turned to him, her mouth agape. "Mark, _really_."

At that he laughed outright. "Darling, you have a one track mind. Just come sit closer to me."

He pulled up her wrist, then pushed the armrest between them flush with the back of the seat.

"Oh."

He slipped his arm around her, kissed the hair at her temple. Within seconds she felt his fingers on her hip, tugging the bottom hem of her shirt up.

"Mark," she hissed. "What are you doing?"

"Looking to settle you down." His fingers traced along her skin.

He wasn't really going to do this, was he? Grope her right there in front of the other first class passengers and the air hostesses?

His other arm came round and it was belatedly she realised he was transferring something from one hand to another. She heard a sticky, backing-being-peeled away sound before she felt him press something against the small of her back, between her hip and her spine.

"What did you just do?"

"Attempted to quell your craving."

With a devilish smile he handed her the backing from—

"A nicotine patch?"

"Found a prescription you'd gotten but never filled, and filled it for you."

She rather enjoyed the illusion of Mark not knowing she was still smoking on the sly, albeit far fewer a day than she ever had before. She was, however, very grateful for his actually knowing and pretending not to, or she might have gone mad by the end of the flight.

"It's one of the light ones," he explained.

She smiled; his thoughtfulness knew no bounds. She reached forward and kissed him. "Thank you," she said. "However, I think the patch is supposed to go on the arm."

"True," he said, "but that was much more fun."

Whether it was the actual effect of the nicotine patch or just the placebo effect of knowing it was there, she did not know, but she immediately felt better. Whether too it was the effect of being so busy the last few days getting ready for the trip, the food they'd eaten, the wine they'd had, or a combination of all of that, she suddenly felt really, really tired. She pulled out her foot rest, unfolded her blanket, and made to recline back.

"What are you doing?" Mark asked.

She unpacked the courtesy sleep mask. "About to head for Bedfordshire. I'm wiped."

"Sounds like a fine idea." He tucked his attach√© back under the seat, reclined back, pulled out his blanket. "Just because we're on a plane doesn't mean we can't sleep together. And I do mean sleep, my love."

"I know, durr," she said. "I'm not the one apparently trying to grope you under your clothes."

He laughed. "Fair point."

They settled in together with their satiny sleep masks, pulling the blankets over themselves and pushing their seats back into a reclined position; she curled up against him, her pillow lending support to her head as well. Exhaustion had utterly caught up with her and tackled her to the ground. She was asleep within minutes.

………

"Oh."

This singular vowel sound stirred Mark from sleep, not so much because it was a sound of fear or of pain, but rather more stretched-out a sound, rather more like… well, _pleasure_, like when they were making love. Mark pulled the mask from his eyes to find that she was still very fast asleep.

Perhaps he had been dreaming and had imagined the sound.

That was when another sound came from her that was unmistakeably not in his imagination, sleep-slurred as it was:

"Mmmm. Ohh, _God_."

He felt himself flush with embarrassment. "Bridget," he hissed in a whisper. "Wake up."

"Oh yes," she said, turning her head, breathing unsteadily. "_Yes._"

He saw the eyes of adjoining passengers, lit by their personal overhead lights, flash in their direction; more to the point, to him. Unable to take the scrutiny any longer, he said in a more audible voice, shifting in his seat, "Bridget. Wake up. You're dreaming."

"What?" She startled awake, sitting up, pushing the mask from her face too.

"You were dreaming," he reiterated, then added, more quietly, "quite loudly, I might add."

"Oh, crikey," she said; he couldn't see her clearly but could tell from the tone of her voice alone that she had full recollection of whatever—or whomever—she had been dreaming about. "What was I saying?"

He leaned in close. "It wasn't what you were saying, but rather how you were saying it. Think 'throes of passion'."

He saw her cover her face with her hands as she swore under her breath. "You're going to have to smuggle me off of this plane so I don't have to face any of the other passengers."

Now that she was awake, he was starting to find it a little amusing, though was baffled as to what could have triggered such vivid dreams. She never dreamt like that, at least not to the point of moaning and purring aloud. "I wonder if this is like your craving for cigarettes."

"What?"

"Well," he went on to explain, continuing in the low, confidential, night-time-type tone. "The minute you realised you couldn't smoke you immediately craved one."

"Mark, _honestly_." She reached out and lightly tapped the back of his hand. "You make me sound like some kind of nymphomaniac."

At that he chuckled. "So do you dream like this often?"

"No," she said emphatically.

"Never have dreams about sex, then?"

"I didn't say that," she said sniffily.

He slipped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, rearranging the blanket so that they might try to go back to sleep. "So tell me," he asked, close to her ear, "what were you dreaming about?"

"I think you know," she responded.

"Well, yes," he said; "that was easy enough to guess. Tell me specifics."

"Mark," she said, bristling, "that hardly seems fair to either of us when there can be no resolution for quite a few hours yet."

She had a point, but she seemed somehow more resistant than he would have expected. "I will somehow bear the burden of the consequences of knowing what the dream-me did to the dream-you."

Her response was so quiet he had to ask her to repeat herself.

"I said," she whispered, "it wasn't you."

His face fell, as did his stomach. Dreaming of other men in that way? He suddenly felt cast to sea.

"It wasn't me, either," she was quick to add. "Well, sort of not me. I was a nurse. Cutest little nurse outfit. Kind of sexy, actually. And then Dr Ross came in."

"Dr Ross?"

"From _ER_. You know. George Clooney."

"Bridget," he said in a pained voice.

"Oh, Mark, I tried to get you to let it go," she said, cuddling into him, hugging him tightly. "It was just a dream, a meaningless dream."

Rationally, he knew that it was. He had no doubts about her love for him, her fidelity was unquestioned, and at least it wasn't a past boyfriend she'd been dreaming about. No, he found his thoughts turning to the little nurse outfit, and he had no one to blame but himself for insisting on her telling him.

When he glanced down again he saw she had fallen back to sleep, so he gently tugged the sleep mask back over her eyes. After pulling his mask into place, he laid his head back, attempting a return to sleep himself, where he was met in his dreams by his lovely wife, dressed enticingly in a little nurse outfit.

………

_Tuesday_

It was the sound of low voices nearby that next woke Bridget, speaking of toast and cereal, as well as the distinct smell of coffee. She pushed herself up, pulled up her sleep mask, and found that the cabin lights had been restored and that the air hostesses were taking breakfast orders. She wondered how long she'd been sleeping. She glanced over to Mark, who looked adorable with the sleep mask on, blanket pulled to his chin.

The air hostess noticed she'd awakened, and approached. "Good morning," said the air hostess quietly. "Would you like something to eat?"

She realised then how hungry she was. She ordered them both breakfast—eggs, toast and bacon for Mark, pastry for herself—then dug under her seat for her carry on bag and wandered off to the loo to fix her hair, wash her face and reapply her makeup. It wasn't a proper shower, but she felt refreshed all the same.

Mark had made sure they'd packed a change of clothes into their carry-on bags, so she took the opportunity to dress in the demure yet pretty skirt and knit top she'd chosen to wear for the landing, something befitting the wife of a top-notch human rights barrister.

She could not help but think, though, of her first meeting with Mr Santiago, and of how anything would be an improvement over the way she'd looked that day.

When she returned to her seat, she found that Mark had not budged. _Poor dear,_ she thought. _Must have been so tired with all of his preparations._ She shook his shoulder gently, said softly, "Mark. Breakfast."

He shifted in his seat, reached up for his sleep mask and pushed his seat upright all at the same time. His hair was a little mussed and he looked a touch stubbly, but overall he looked well-rested.

"Good morning," she said, leaning forward to kiss him. "I ordered for you."

"Thank you, darling," he returned, running his fingers through his hair. "Think I should tidy up a bit in the loo."

"Most spacious plane loo I've ever been in," she said with a smile.

He laughed, then went to rise, but upon seeing the approach of breakfast, he sat again.

"After we eat, I guess," he said, taking a big bite out of his buttered toast.

………

It turned out that, aside from the dream-related hiccough, they had slept for a good nine hours straight through, which surprised Mark. He chalked it up to sheer exhaustion. They had both been preparing for this trip, but he of course had the extra layer of work to contend with, and he'd had to make sure all of his papers were in order and accounted for, all of the 't's crossed and 'i's dotted.

After finishing breakfast, he washed up, shaved, and changed out of the jumper and casual trousers he had on and into a suit. Upon his return he found, as he returned his garment bag to storage, that his wife was looking up at him very lovingly.

"God, you wear a suit well," she said as he settled into his seat.

He smirked. It was not the first time she'd made such a comment. "You look quite gorgeous yourself."

She just continued smiling at him to a point where he felt compelled to ask, "What's going on?"

"I just had the sweetest question from our air hostess."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hmm," said Bridget. "She asked me if there was a particular reason we had chosen Peru for our honeymoon."

"Honeymoon?" he asked, puzzled.

"Yes," she said, getting all teary, but, he could tell, in a happy way. "She thought we were newlyweds."

"What? Why?"

"I asked her that myself," said Bridget. "And she said that it was usually only newlyweds who seemed to love staying so close to one another, constantly touching each other, sleeping all nestled together, et cetera. I should have, but didn't correct the misapprehension."

He smiled, taking her hand in his. "I guess then if everyone thinks so, your night-time interruption can easily be explained away. How cruel of me to make you spend your wedding night on a plane."

She laughed.

"I much prefer 'newlywed' to 'bored old married stiff'," he said, his tone becoming serious. "I would never want anyone to think I take you for granted. Particularly you."

She leaned forward and kissed him. "So far, so good," she said. "And if not for the fact that we were all dressed up to the nines in our best clothes, I might have dragged you off to the loo to show you how much I appreciate not being taken for granted."

He was going to say _Don't tempt me_ in response, but realised it was too late; he was already tempted. However, decorum in this instance was absolutely required. "Once we're all settled down in the attached cottage," he said quietly in return, "you may show me all you like."

At her playful smile, he reached to kiss her again, gentle, loving, delicate kisses to her lips; as he did so, he heard a female voice from the row behind them commenting on how sweet and romantic it was to see a husband gift his wife with such tokens of affection, in a tone, he thought, that bespoke a bit of jealousy.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**The Peruvian Affair**

Part 2 of 7

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 36,242 (This part: 4,725)

Rating: M / R

Disclaimer, Summary, etc. can be found in Part 1.

* * *

**Chapter 2.**

_BIENVENIDOS A SR MARK DARCY Y SU ESPOSA_

It was Bridget who first spotted the sign at the airport, grinning madly and pointing as they headed for baggage claim. "Oh," she said woefully, "but I don't speak a lick of Spanish."

"I'm sure we'll manage," he said, "plus I brought you a phrase book."

She chuckled. "You always think of everything."

"I do try."

They approached the man with the sign, a distinguished looking gentleman with greying temples, tall, smiling, and dressed in a suit. He spoke before they did. "Welcome to Lima, Señor Darcy, Señora Darcy," he said.

"We're very pleased to be here," said Mark, offering a dazzling smile as he reached to shake hands with the man. She decided at once to let Mark doing all the talking.

"Please allow me to introduce myself, Señor Darcy. I am Luis Domingo," he said. His English was impeccable. "However, I insist that you call me Luis."

"And please call me Mark," he said, then turned to add: "Luis, this is my wife, Bridget."

Bridget held out her hand to him, which he took and very gallantly kissed the back of. "A very great pleasure. Just as lovely as I've heard."

She flushed, her mind racing to think how Mr Santiago might have described her. "Thank you very much."

Luis looked from her to Mark and back to her again, smiling. "I trust you had a pleasant flight?" Luis asked.

"Oh yes," he said. "Very pleasant indeed."

"Very good, very glad to hear. I should, however, like to get you to your lodgings at once. Such a long time in transit, you must be in need of the comforts of home, some lunch, a nap."

Mark smiled. "Thank you. That sounds welcome indeed."

They went to claim their bags, then headed for the car. Bridget squinted in the bright midday sun, realising she'd forgotten to put her sunglasses in her carry-on bag. Oh, for it to be November and to be bathed in such light and such warmth after leaving the chill and gloomy rain of London; she was going to like very much indeed being in the Southern Hemisphere during what she considered to be winter. After Luis and one or two porter types got the luggage loaded into the car, they were off.

She peered through the window as they drove along, gawking as she had when her parents had brought her to London as a child for the first time, overwhelmed by the beauty of the surroundings, the distant brownish and green mountains, vast expanses of blue sky, and gorgeous, unique architecture. She felt Mark gently squeeze her hand, and she broke her gaze at the vista surrounding them to cast a smile in his direction.

"I feel like I'm dreaming," she gushed. "It's so different from England."

He smiled, kissing the back of her hand affectionately; she knew he dared not do anything more until they were in private. "It is gorgeous, isn't it?"

"And we'll be here for a whole month, while all of London is shivering in a damp, fridge-like existence, covered in blankets of snow—"

She stopped short, not believing that she had not thought until that moment what else they might miss back home.

"Bridget, darling, what is it?" Mark asked.

"We'll be here for Christmas, won't we?"

"Well," he said, "that isn't decided yet. The official ceremony for the accord is just before the holiday. We could immediately fly home, but honestly…" He paused, grinning. "…I rather like the idea of spending Christmas, just the two of us in the warm summer sun, with no battles over sieving versus stirring gravy, and instead feasting on _ceviche_ and drinking _chicha morada_."

From behind the wheel of the car, she heard Luis chuckle. "I see that you have been doing your homework," he said; she'd almost forgotten he was there, so polite and quiet was he. "Though after the work you'll be doing, I think you'll want _pisco_ instead."

They both laughed. Bridget felt kind of foolish.

"I suggested a soft drink," explained Mark, seeing her confusion. "Luis suggested brandy."

"Oh," she said, grinning. "And what's _ceviche_?"

"Spicy seafood dish I think you will very much enjoy," said Luis.

She grinned. This was going to be much more of an adventure than she'd ever expected.

………

"Mark Darcy. So good to see you again."

Esteban Santiago greeted the two of them at the front door of his home, wide grin in place, arm outstretched to shake as soon as the two of them came into the main house. "You're looking very well indeed. Married life suits you," he continued, then turned his eyes towards Bridget. "And you, young lady—or should I say, Señora—you look as beautiful as ever."

Mark watched as Bridget smiled shyly and tinted pink. "Thank you very much, sir," she said as Santiago accepted her hand, placing a respectful kiss on the back as Luis had done.

"I am sorry we were never formally introduced at our first meeting," he said, "but I suspect you had greater things on your mind that day."

She chuckled. "Very true."

"Come. I'd like to introduce you to my wife before I show you to your cottage. In your place I would want a little rest before the evening meal."

He led the pair into the house, passing through the living room and out the back to a gorgeous mosaic patio with a swimming pool and a view of the green valley around them. It was a breathtaking sight, and Mark realised they would likely have a similar view from their own lodgings.

Under a sun umbrella nestled beneath a canopy of trees sat a beautiful dark-haired woman sporting sunglasses, who, at their appearance, smiled, set the book down she was reading and pushed the sunglasses up into her long hair as she stood. As she did Mark noticed she was dressed in a long, flowing jacket and dress. "_Buenos días_," she said pleasantly, then switched to English, which was not as good as her husband's but very good nonetheless. "Hello. So lovely to have you to stay with us. You must be Señor Darcy." She came forward and shook his hand. "I have heard much about you, Señor."

"This is my wife," explained Santiago. Mark had heard him speak of her but had somehow expected her to look different, more matronly, considering the man had two grown daughters.

"The pleasure is mine, Señora Santiago."

"Señor, I would hope you to call me as you call my husband, by, as you say, first name. Please call me Mercedes."

He saw a look of confusion cross Bridget's face, but it was not the time to ask her about it.

"And I hope you'll call me Mark," he said in response. "This is my wife, Bridget."

She turned her light brown eyes to Bridget, her smile not changing, though she seemed to be concentrating hard on something. "Oh, a lovely girl," she said. "So very nice to meet you, Bridget." The name sounded a little clumsy rolling off her tongue. Bridget, however, smiled; he knew the Thai women had resorted to calling her 'Bee-shit', and at least Mercedes hadn't said that.

"Very nice to meet you too, Señora," she said, taking the woman's proffered hand and shaking delicately. "You have such a lovely country," she said, "and your house is just… wow."

"_Gracias_," she said. "Esteban, have you shown them to the cottage yet?"

"No, my dear," he said. "I wanted to introduce you first."

Mercedes smiled. "Then allow me to show them. It is my duty as your wife to make sure our guests are comfortable, after all."

Esteban smiled. "As you wish."

Mercedes led them back into the house, through a door, a short walkway, and into what he presumed was the cottage, though it was much more lavishly decorated and comfortable than any cottage he'd ever seen. "Before they left," Mercedes explained, "my daughters lived here when they reached adulthood. Gave them their privacy while still allowing them to be part of the household."

"It's beautiful," said Bridget. "Did you decorate this?"

Mercedes nodded modestly.

"You have excellent, excellent taste."

"_Gracias_," she said again.

Mark had been a little worried how she and Señora Santiago would get along, being from different cultures and different generations, but so far, it seemed to be they were getting along just fine. He smiled.

"I trust that Luis has already taken your bags to the master bedroom," continued Mercedes. "Let me show you around."

It was fully furnished on a smaller scale than the main house, Mark was sure, but it was complete in its amenities; full kitchen, sitting room, one and a half bathrooms, a spare room, and a master suite, which to Mark's delight did have the same astounding view as the back patio. "I hope this will do for your stay here," Mercedes said modestly.

"Think it will more than do," replied Bridget. "Thank you so much, Señora."

"The kitchen has some food in it," she continued, "but we would be honoured if you joined us for supper. And Bridget, I must insist that you join me for lunch, too, so that you don't start to feel too lonely here by yourself."

From the look that crossed her face, he started to wonder if Bridget hadn't realised previously that this wasn't going to be like a holiday; she would have her own writing to attend to, of course, but he would have to do a lot of work with Santiago, likely accompanying him to the governmental chambers to do so. "That sounds very nice. Thank you," she said meekly.

"I will speak to my husband," said Mercedes, "and insist to let you rest tomorrow. You need to get acclimated to the differences here, and rest after your long journey."

"That would be very much appreciated," Mark said. "You have been more than kind to us already."

She smiled, broadly and obviously heart-felt. "It is my sincerest pleasure. Now I will leave you to be. There is some lunch for you in the kitchen. Supper will be at six, and you're welcome to let yourself in. We will see you then, _sí_?"

"_Sí_," said Mark with a smile.

Mercedes left them and for the first time in almost a day they were alone. He walked over to his wife, took her in his arms, and held her tight.

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Do you want something?"

"A lie-down."

He chuckled. "A lie-down it shall be then."

Mark emptied his suit jacket pockets onto the bureau. He had not immediately noticed the key there, probably for the front door; he set his wallet, mobile and the claddagh amulet he took with him everywhere (given to him by his wife for their wedding) with the key.

He realised then he should call home to let them know they had arrived, so picked up his mobile and dialled his mother. She looked quizzical but as his mother answered and they began speaking, Bridget understood what the call was about. The conversation was short and to the point, though she was glad to hear they'd made it safe and sound, and promised to then call Bridget's parents to let them know, too. He returned the mobile to the bureau, then removed his suit jacket and tie.

"So what was that about earlier?" he asked.

"What?"

"When you were introduced to Mercedes, you had a strange expression on your face. Do you not like her?"

"Oh, that," she said, laughing lightly. "Just was thinking, 'Like the car?'"

He could not help but laugh himself. "Wonder if she's ever met Giles' sister." At her blank look, he added, "Portia."

She burst out into giggles. "You can be such a silly, silly man," she said, divesting herself of her knit top.

"My silliness has only been allowed to bloom under your tender care," he said; at the sight of her bare stomach and bra he remembered her wish for a secret assignation in the loo. "You _can_ call her Mercedes, you know."

"No, I don't think I can," she said, wiggling out of the skirt, peeling off the hosiery. "It doesn't feel respectful."

He smiled, coming up behind her and reaching for her bra clasp. "Mark!" she said in a quiet gasp. "What do you think you're doing?"

"You're the one standing half naked getting ready for a lie-down," he said, unfastening it. "You tell me."

She turned and laughed, still holding the bra in place. "In that case, you are vastly overdressed." She reached up and threaded her arms around his neck, kissing him passionately, making him realise how much he had missed her.

"Darling," he said when she broke off for air.

"Hm?"

"Still vastly overdressed."

She giggled again. "Sorry. Could no longer control myself."

"You wouldn't be you if you could."

She climbed into the bed, commenting on how marvellously soft the sheets were, while he took off his shirt, his trousers, his tank and his boxers.

"Oh, you're right," he said, lying back on the pillow. "Very soft." He closed his eyes. _Oh yes,_ he thought. _This will do very nicely indeed._

"_Mark!_" she said.

"What?" he asked, opening his eyes.

She looked crestfallen. "You were snoring!"

He laughed, sat up, and pushed her back onto the bed, onto her pillow. "My deepest apologies," he said, his mouth hovering just over hers. "Please, let me make it up to you."

He then kissed her, and judging from her response, then her cries and soft sounds as he proceeded to make love to her, he gathered that all was forgiven.

………

There was a disconcerting moment upon awakening when Bridget had no idea where she was, but then remembered: Peru. She felt a little sleep-woozy still but she saw the sun was still in the sky. Unless they'd managed to sleep through the night and into the next day, they had not yet missed dinner.

"Mark," she said softly, brushing her fingers along his face.

"Hmm," he replied, not opening his eyes.

"We should get up."

He responded yet again monosyllabically.

"Mark," she said again, a little more emphatically. "If we miss dinner with our hosts it'll be rude."

Reluctantly he opened his eyes. "Am now wishing we had hotel," he teased. "I'd be calling room service."

She chuckled, leaning forward to kiss him. "Did you sleep well?" she asked.

"Like a baby," he said. As his hand rounded the curve of the small of her back, he added, "Of course, it wasn't the sleep alone that has refreshed me."

"As the saying goes, nothing that couldn't be cured by a little sleep and a good—well, you know."

He laughed. "Yes. I do know," he murmured, then reached to kiss her again.

"Mark," she said. "Clock says five-thirty."

"Bugger," he said. "I was hoping for a bit more refreshing."

"How about a refreshing washing up before supper?" she offered playfully, as tempting as his offer was.

"If you insist on being so bloody—what was that?"

The sharp manner with which the tone of his voice changed startled her more than his words.

She drew her brows. "It sounds like someone's downstairs."

He threw back the covers, put on his robe, and went out the door.

She sat frozen, awaiting his return, nervous about the house being invaded on their first night there, wondering about what kind of security the average Peruvian had if governmental secretaries could be walked in upon willy-nilly.

Mark was back in a flash. "Miscommunication," he said. "It was one of the staff in to bring food into the kitchen. I told them thank you and sent them off."

Bridget thought about the possibility of being walked in on at any time, and didn't like it a bit. "Mark, you'll have to talk to our hosts. We may have different ideas about privacy."

"It's an isolated thing, I'm sure," he said. "The young woman didn't realise we were here yet."

"Oh."

He came back to the bed, reaching his hand out to her. "Come on. Let's get ready for dinner."

They each had a very quick shower and dressed in something a little more casual than earlier, arriving for dinner at the stroke of six. Mercedes met them with a smile just on the other side of the connecting door, then led them to the dining room.

It was exquisite, the dining room, set for four, and an array of covered dishes on the table already. "My husband will be here soon," said Mercedes. "Please, sit, and I'll serve you."

………

Mercedes Santiago watched as Mark and his wife took seats at their dining room table. With a smile, she then began to heap savoury-smelling foods onto their plates, all the while watching the two of them.

She had heard plenty of detail about Mark from her husband. Professional, courteous, and an absolute master in his field, Mark had gone out of his way to make Esteban and his people feel welcome in London, making sure to ferret out reputable Peruvian restaurants so that they might feel at home. Esteban, though, in his frequent communications back to his wife, had mentioned a sort of quiet sadness to the man—"He is a kind man, but has no wife, no family, nothing to balance out his long days of paperwork and courtrooms," he'd said—until he'd mentioned the sudden appearance at the conference of a rain-sodden blonde and an unexpected engagement.

Mercedes had been very curious to know more.

More than three years after his trip to London, Esteban had orchestrated the major anti-drug accord that was now in its final weeks before signing. In wanting the best legal minds involved in the process, he had made sure that Mark was at the top of the list. Mark and Esteban had been too busy to keep up professionally, never mind personally, and when he learned that Mark had been married for two of those years, he knew instantly whom Mark had married, the woman he'd proposed to on impulse at Inns of Court.

This woman, this Bridget, seemed very sweet on first meeting, wide-eyed and full of wonder at their modest home and surroundings; she was clearly not a jaded woman of the world, not like the spouses of some of the dignitaries and officials they often entertained in their home, all business and coolly aloof.

It was not hard to see, as the pair ate and engaged in friendly small talk, that their marriage was anything but a formal arrangement, nothing akin to a business merger. The way he looked at her, smiled at her, rested his free hand over hers, tucking loose hair behind her ear to keep it out of her soup; it all bespoke of the deepest kind of love and affection. It warmed her heart to think that such a fine man had found such a suitable wife. Mercedes felt strangely drawn to Bridget in a very motherly way, perhaps because she seemed close in age to her own grown daughters.

During her reflection on their guests, Esteban arrived with a smile, apologising profusely for his tardiness. "I'm glad you did not wait for me," he said. "Mercedes' cooking should not be made to suffer waiting around and growing cool while her husband is waylaid by bureaucrats on the way out."

Mark said, "No need to apologise. I understand."

"Dinner is absolutely delicious," interjected Bridget. "I dare not think about the calorie count, though."

Mark laughed, then explained, "She likes to track her calories. She labours under the ridiculous notion that she needs to lose weight."

"Nonsense," said Mercedes. "If anything, dear, you're a little too thin."

Bridget looked to Mercedes with a smile, blushing.

"So now I know three things about your wife, Mark," said Esteban, "that she's been to Thailand, doesn't care to use an umbrella, and is far too thin."

Their guests chuckled politely while Bridget's blush deepened.

Mercedes watched as Mark turned his eyes to look at his wife; when Mercedes had met the pair he had been very business-like and professional, but now, in this more casual setting with a glass of wine after a much-deserved nap, it was very clear Bridget was his everything.

"She'd accuse me of being biased," said Mark, "but she's the wittiest person I know, sharp as a tack, and always able to make me laugh."

"You're right," said Bridget. "You are biased."

Esteban chuckled, obviously amused. "She sounds absolutely perfect. Please, make me feel better and tell me she has some kind of fault."

Mark continued to look at her lovingly. "If I had to assign a fault," he said at last, "is that she has a tendency to attract trouble, which keeps me on my toes more often than not."

She looked at him with a playful, sidelong glance, sticking her tongue out at him briefly before apparently remembering that might not have been the most appropriate behaviour for her surroundings. "Sorry," she said balefully.

Esteban laughed aloud, reached for Mercedes' hand and squeezed it tightly. "We serious men need more women like your Bridget and my Mercedes to remind us what's really important in this life."

Mercedes felt herself smiling warmly at Bridget, too. Her daughter Ximena had always been fond of sticking her tongue out at her sister, and though Mercedes felt she had spent the entirety of their youth scolding the girls for it, she found now that they were grown and moved away, she missed it terribly.

"That's enough about me," said Bridget, looking chagrined. "I think it's gorgeous here and I can't wait to go exploring."

"Exploring?"

"Well, I told my girlfriend Jude about coming to Peru and she gave me a guidebook! So when Mark's working, I can go out on my own—"

"Absolutely not," said Mark; Mercedes could not help but notice the stark change in his voice, his demeanour: warm and loving to cool and stern.

"Mark," she said sadly, pouting.

"Bridget," he said emphatically, his eyes dark, his gaze unblinking. "You're English, you're blonde-haired and blue-eyed. I am not taking the risk of you getting kidnapped or worse."

"Kidnapped!" she said, laughing. "You're so dramatic. Isn't he dramatic?"

While sweet and charming, Bridget was, Mercedes realised, a bit na√Øve. She obviously had no idea of the real possibility of abduction for ransom, and Mark was right to look as worried as he did at the thought of leaving her all alone in a strange country for a good portion of each day. Mercedes watched Bridget's countenance become serious when neither she nor Esteban joined in on the laughing.

"Mark, I don't mean anything more than visiting the town, seeing the sights. How much trouble can I possibly get into doing that?"

Mark's jaw tensed at her question; Mercedes imagined that his answer if spoken might get him into serious trouble.

"For pity's sake, Mark, I'm a grown woman who's lived in London most of my adult life. I can take care of myself," she asserted.

"Bridget," he said, even more determinedly.

"So what am I supposed to do then, sit in our room on my own all day?"

"As a matter of fact, no," said Mark, then looked to Mercedes. "If it would not be too much trouble for you, would you look after Bridget during the day?"

Bridget's mouth dropped open. "I don't need a babysitter, Mark."

"It would be my honour," Mercedes said before things got uncomfortable between the married couple. "I can show Bridget around the city, to the shops, and so on."

At that Bridget visibly brightened. "Oh, well, that would be very nice. Thank you!"

Mercedes smiled. It would be very nice to have the company, especially the company of a nice young woman so close to age to her daughters. And really, for Mark's peace of mind, it was the least she could do; catching a glimpse of Mark's appreciative look was reward enough.

………

Mercedes would never know how grateful Mark was for her offer; grateful that this older, wiser woman familiar with the city and the customs of her people would be Bridget's guardian angel, and also grateful that the woman was so able to easily and graciously placate Bridget and avoiding anything approaching drama.

"Thank you," Mark said also, smiling, feeling completely relieved. He would be able to enjoy his day off with Bridget knowing she would be in good hands while he worked.

"It will be no trouble at all," Mercedes said.

Mark fought the urge to chuckle, wondering if she'd feel the same once she got to know Bridget.

It turned out that Mercedes had prepared a special dessert for them as well, _suspiro a la limeña_, a custardy vanilla concoction. Bridget as always looked conflicted at its appearance: it looked delicious, but he knew she was in constant fear of dessert going straight to her hips.

"You are on holiday of sorts," said Mercedes with a smile. "You must sample all of our finest dishes, and besides, you deserve a treat."

He watched Bridget smile slowly. "Well," she said. "It is important to expand one's cultural experiences…"

"That's the spirit," said Esteban, who then rose. "You must also try the finest _pisco_ in all of Peru."

Mark grinned broadly. "I'd be honoured. Please pour one for both of us."

"Perhaps a treat," suggested Mercedes. "_Pisco_ sour."

"Ah yes," said Esteban with a broad grin. "I think the lady will like that very much indeed. Excuse me. This takes a little preparation in the kitchen."

Mark watched Bridget's eyes follow him out the door with curiosity, then turned back to Mercedes. "Is it very sour, the drink?"

"No," she replied, "at least I don't think so. It's made with lemon juice but tempered with egg white and sugar."

"Oooh," she said. "Can't wait to try."

Shortly Esteban returned with four small glasses filled with a foam-topped caramel liquid that very much resembled a cappuccino. He gave one to each of them, then resumed his seat with his dessert, then lifted it in a toast.

"_Salud_," he said, smiling, then they all took a sip. It was quite tasty, a little tangy and sweet.

"What was this again? _Pisco_ sour?" asked Bridget, her tongue peeking out to the corner of her mouth. "Absolutely delicious."

"I'm glad you approve," said Mercedes with a smile.

As they were finishing up with dessert and drinks, Bridget rose and excused herself. "Thought I saw the ladies on the way in here," she explained. "Won't be a moment."

When she left, Mark took the opportunity to express his thankfulness that Mercedes could keep an eye on his wife.

"I truly appreciate your willingness to do this," he said. "She can be a little too spontaneous at times, a little too trusting, and—"

"No need to thank me," she said. "It will be my pleasure."

Mark said, "You say that now…"

"Ah," said Mercedes, with what Mark recognised as a devilish smile. "I raised two very rebellious daughters. Nothing about your Bridget scares me."

Mark grinned. "If you say so."

Bridget returned, precluding further discussion. He realised then how completely drained she looked, how wobbly her gait seemed to be coming back to the table. She did not sit down again, instead saying to their hosts with a wan smile, "I really hate to be a wet towel because I'm having such a lovely time with the two of you, but with everything today, and all of that good food and drink, I'd really love to just head to Bedfordshire."

Their two hosts looked perplexed. "There is no town near here called that."

Mark fought off a laugh. "She means she wants to retire for the evening."

Bridget blushed. "Yes, exactly. Sorry," she said.

"Oh, of course!" Mercedes said, smiling. "We completely understand."

Mark rose, putting his arm around Bridget's shoulders, feeling her unsteady on her feet again. Despite the nap, he too felt the effects of their long travel, and the warm feeling of so much delicious food and drink were doing nothing to invigorate him. "Thank you for a most delightful first evening here in Peru. We'll see you in the morning."

Santiago and his wife rose from their seats too. "Sleep well, my friends," he said.

"After such a wonderful evening, I don't see how we couldn't."

* * *

Note:

One of my favourite movie quotes, which inspired something Bridget says:

Roland: Sara just got off a plane from London.  
Trudi: Oh, you must be exhausted.  
Sara: Yes, I'm shattered, but it's nothing that some sleep and a good f*ck wouldn't cure, as my sister used to say. Ha ha ha.  
[Everyone stares]  
Roland: You'll have to forgive Sara.  
Sara: Oh, it was just… it was just a figure of speech. I've been on a plane for twelve hours next to a crying baby.

— _L.A. Story_


	3. Chapter 3

**The Peruvian Affair**

Part 3 of 7

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 36,242 (This part: 6,309)

Rating: M / R

Disclaimer, Summary, etc. can be found in Part 1.

* * *

**Chapter 3.**

_Wednesday_

One thing they'd forgotten to do before going to bed was close the blinds, and it was a stream of golden morning light that made Bridget wish she'd realised sooner that their room was facing east. The sun came shining through the windows at a very early hour, much earlier than she'd gotten used to in London's winter. She pulled the sheet up over her head and turned over in her annoyance, probably a little too roughly as she apparently woke Mark: "Bridget, are you _trying_ to wake the dead?"

Both of them had prepared for bed, slipped in, and fallen to sleep almost immediately, probably due to the brandy in combination with their exhaustion. After his abrupt query, though, she heard him chuckle, then he pulled her to him, spooning up to her, pressing kisses into her tousled hair.

"Good morning," he said into her ear.

She smiled, no longer irritated that the sun had had the temerity to rise so early. "Slept like the dead, did you, then?"

"Close to it," he confirmed. "Oddly enough, dreamt about skiing. How about you?"

She chuckled. "I don't remember dreaming," she said. "Slept very soundly though, save for the interruption of daybreak."

He tightened his arms around her waist. "What would you like to do today?" he asked.

"Mm. I don't know," she replied. "Don't suppose it would be good manners to want to stay up here all day and laze about in bed, would it?"

Mark laughed low in his throat. "Don't suppose it would be. Perhaps the Santiagos can recommend something."

"I wonder what time it is."

Mark pushed himself up and away, presumably to reach for his watch. "Early. Not even six A.M."

She groaned. "Much too early," she said, burrowing her face back into her pillow.

She felt Mark rise from the bed, and for a few horrifying moments thought he might drag her out of bed, but no; instead the room around them darkened to a more normal, natural, blinds-are-drawn morning haze. He then climbed back into bed.

"Is that better?" he asked, curling up to her again, kissing the tip of her earlobe.

"Much." She closed her eyes.

"I'm so glad you came with me," he murmured. "The thought of being in this gorgeous place without you… I would already be missing you desperately."

She smiled, then sighed, nestling back into his embrace. She was very thankful indeed that her work could be done from anywhere, even the opposite ends of the earth from home.

It was to the feel of his warm breath on the short hairs of her neck that she drifted back to sleep; she hadn't even realised she'd done so until she turned over and found that Mark was not there. She reached for his watch. It was now after ten.

The bathroom was not directly connected to the bedroom, but she suspected that was where Mark had gone off to. She slipped out of bed, dressed in her robe, and padded out of the room, only to be greeted with the overwhelmingly delicious scent of coffee.

Instead she wandered down to the kitchen, where she found Mark fixing a tray with mugs of coffee and what looked like slices of cake. He turned just as she approached and smiled. "I was just going to bring this up to you."

"Give me a minute, and I'll dash back upstairs and fake that I'm sleeping."

He laughed.

"Where did that come from?" she asked as they ascended the stairs. "The cake, I mean."

"It was on the countertop when I came down here. I think Mercedes figured out that you rather like chocolate."

They settled back into bed and plunged forks into the cake, which was astoundingly good. The chocolate was rich and yet somehow a little spicy.

"I feel so decadent," she said, drawing from her coffee mug. "Chocolate cake for breakfast."

"No worse than having a muffin," said Mark, "or a chocolate croissant."

"Very good point," she said, cutting off another forkful. "Of which I shall remind you when I insist on chocolate cake for breakfast on some future morning."

"You," he said with a grin, "are a spoiled brat."

"And you," she retorted, "are my chief spoiler."

He did not respond, but his grin broadened as he ate another bite.

………

After a shower and dressing, the pair of them wandered to the main house, where they found Mercedes sitting at a writing desk, presumably taking care of some correspondence. She looked up and her face lit up with a smile upon seeing their approach.

"Good morning," she said. "You look very well indeed, very rested and refreshed."

"Thank you," said Mark. "We were very comfortable."

"Thank you for breakfast," said Bridget. "That cake was fantastic."

She smiled even more brightly at the compliment. "The chilli-chocolate combination is not always well-received by foreigners but I had a feeling you might like it."

"That certainly explains the unusual spicy quality to it," Mark said.

"I would love it if you would share the recipe," Bridget begged politely.

It would have been impolite to burst into laughter at the thought of Bridget attempting the recipe herself, so Mark figuratively bit his lip and fought the impulse to do so.

"I'll tell you what," said Mercedes. "Perhaps tomorrow we can bake a cake together."

Bridget grinned, her eyes shining at the very thought. "Oh yes. That would be lovely."

"In the meantime," Mark said, "we were wondering if there was something you might suggest for the two of us to do today, maybe the one thing you would recommend to anyone coming to stay for a very short period of time."

Mercedes smiled broadly. "Let me make a few phone calls."

Without another word she rose from the desk and moved towards a telephone. For each of her calls, she spoke rapidly in Spanish, but her words were peppered with light laughter and her tone was very friendly.

When she finished she turned back to them. "There," she said. "In fifteen minutes you will have a very nice, romantic day."

Mark looked to Bridget, who looked about as starry-eyed as he'd ever seen her. "Thank you. You are marvellous."

They got ready for a day outdoors in the sun; Bridget thankfully was able to locate her sunglasses in the bottom of her big suitcase. As promised, transportation arrived, but was, to Mark's utter bafflement, a horse-drawn carriage. "A friend owed a favour to me," said Mercedes, "and he happens to run this wonderful tour of the city. I hope you'll enjoy yourselves."

"Wow," said Bridget. "This is lovely, and so kind. Thank you so much."

"It is my pleasure," she said. Beaming a smile, Bridget strode forward to the older woman and gave her a generous hug before they left the house and boarded the carriage. The driver smiled, tipped his hat respectfully, and without delay they set off.

The tour they took was so long and so thorough that Mark could not help but joke that the poor horse should have been changed out or risk exhaustion. The driver deposited them at a quaint little restaurant with a wonderfully accommodating staff, and between Mark's barest knowledge of Spanish and their grasp of English, they had a lovely lunch together before resuming the tour.

At the conclusion, the driver wound up taking them to Parque del Amor, told them to spend as much time as they wanted there. They walked hand in hand around the park, admiring the famous statue of the lovers, stopping occasionally to look out over the cliffs, across the vast Pacific Ocean, the cool sea breeze rising and tickling their faces.

"It is heavenly here," murmured Bridget as they gazed out towards the western horizon. "I'm so glad we had this day together."

"So am I," said Mark, pulling her close to him, stroking her bare arm with his palm, feeling goose pimples rising on her skin. "It'll help me get through to our next day together."

She turned to look at him, looking very worried. "Which is when?" she asked.

"Sunday," said Mark. "Everyone seems to take the 'day of rest' concept very seriously."

"Not even Saturday?" she asked, looking very disappointed.

"We'll have to see," said Mark, feeling overwhelmingly guilty. "But don't forget that you will have your own work to do, and Mercedes will be keeping you company."

"Keeping an eye on me, more like," she said with a pout.

He cupped her face with his hands and bent to give her a very long, very thorough kiss. "You'll just have to accept that since you are the most precious thing in the world to me, I will do everything I can to keep you safe."

She looked very emotional, but then cracked a smile and teased, "'Thing'?"

He laughed, hugging her. "You know what I mean."

"Yes, Mark," she said, her voice muffled against his shirt. "I certainly do."

………

_Thursday_

"How was your day yesterday?" asked Mercedes over breakfast the next morning.

Bridget smiled wistfully. "It was wonderful. Thank you so very much."

After leaving the Parque del Amor, they had gone on to a restaurant for dinner and dancing. The whole day, and particularly the evening, had been so incredibly romantic; Mark was surprisingly game not only for dancing but for dancing the tango, and by the time they left the dance floor Bridget was more than eager to get back to their temporary home for the duration of their stay in order to—

"Are you all right, my dear?" asked Mercedes.

"Yes." She sighed. Last night had been so fantastic that she felt Mark's absence even more acutely in the light of day. "It's just that last night was _really_ wonderful."

Mercedes smiled broadly. "Ah. I understand. Did you have dinner and dancing?"

Bridget felt her face flush bright red. "Yes."

"I'm glad you had such a nice day." Mercedes drank some more of her coffee. "I have some things to do around the house today, preparing for dinner today and tomorrow as tomorrow is my day at the library, but we should still have some time for a little shopping."

"Library?"

"_Sí_," said Mercedes. "I volunteer three times a week for a four hour shift each."

"Ah," Bridget said. "Maybe not. I have to work."

"Work? I thought this was your holiday."

"Well, it is and isn't," she said with a smile. "I write for a newspaper back home. I'll write then email them back home."

"Then you'll come with me to the library," said Mercedes. "The internet connection in the house is secure and only Esteban can use it."

"Oh," she said.

"The library is lovely, filled with light. You will enjoy being there."

Bridget smiled wanly. _Yippee_, she thought sarcastically.

Mercedes rose from the table. "Ah yes. I also promised you a cake."

Bridget's spirits brightened considerably.

………

"The first thing I need _you_ to do is crush the chilli flakes."

Mercedes measured out the amount needed for the cake as she instructed Bridget, and dumped them into the mortar. She then handed Bridget the pestle, who looked at it with drawn brows.

"We need to add the chilli to the chocolate." She indicated the double boiler; the chocolate was already starting to soften, water beading on the firm edges.

"With this?"

"Unless you'd like to try chopping at them with a knife," Mercedes said with a smile. "Here, I'll show you." She extended her hand, and Bridget dropped the pestle back into her hand. "Like so." She pushed the pestle down and turned it, crushing the chilli into the mortar. "You see?"

"Oh, yes, sure."

Mercedes watched Bridget begin to grind the chilli, and she smiled at the clumsy manner with which she did so. Her technique was clearly unpractised. "You do not crush herbs and spices in your kitchen?" Mercedes asked, then stirred the chocolate.

Bridget glanced up, getting the chilli finer and finer by degrees. "I usually buy them pre-crushed."

"Oh, I think once you crush them yourself you will not want to use the pre-crushed," she said. "The flavour is much fresher and richer. You have seen so already with the cake."

Bridget grinned, blew back a loose strand of hair, then carried on crushing.

"I will start to cream the butter and the sugar. Keep crushing until very fine. No one wants to bite down onto a chilli."

"With a wooden spoon?" asked Bridget, pausing in her endeavour.

"How else?"

"With a food mixer," said Bridget matter-of-factly.

"Bah," Mercedes said, working the sugar into the butter. "Not as effective. Now crush your chillies. The chocolate's almost melted."

Mercedes almost had the butter and sugar to the perfect stage when Bridget came by with the mortar in her hand. "How's this?"

"Perfect," she said, still stirring. "Now if you please, stir it into the chocolate. A little bit at a time. That chilli is very hot and you don't want a cloud of it to go into your face. It would be very painful, particularly in the eyes and nose."

Bridget wrinkled her nose in distaste then nodded in acknowledgement, then went to the double boiler, tipping the mortar slightly, allowing a little bit at a time to fall into the chocolate, stirring all the while until it was all mixed together.

"Very good. Now the chocolate will need to cool a little, so remove the top of the double boiler and set it down on the tiles. If you would be so good to separate four eggs for the yolks—"

At just that moment Bridget cried out with a vulgarity Mercedes wasn't familiar with, dropping the spoon with which she'd been stirring the chocolate, squinting her right eye tight, bouncing around and shaking her hands futilely.

"Oh God!" she howled. "Ow! It burns!"

Calmly, Mercedes grabbed Bridget's wrist and brought her to the sink. She pushed the younger girl to bend down over the sink, turned on the faucet, cupped her hand beneath the stream, and splashed Bridget in the face over and over again for a few minutes. "Better?"

"Yeah," Bridget said, standing upright and blinking. "Still bloody burns a little though."

"What happened?"

"Must have had chilli on my finger," she said, "when I rubbed my eye."

"_Pobrecita_," Mercedes said tenderly, turning the water a little warmer. "Wash your hands thoroughly, then sit on the stool. I'll get you a little milk."

"I'm not thirsty," she said, scrubbing at her hands with the soap.

Mercedes chuckled. "Not to drink. Drip a little into your eye."

Bridget made a face, drying her hands on a clean kitchen towel. "That's sick."

Mercedes laughed, then turned to pull a soup spoon out of the utensil drawer. "You sound like my Carmen. Trust me. This will help if it is still burning."

She put some milk into the spoon, then brought it to Bridget, reminded of so many days when her youngest girl Carmen, anxious to help her _mam√°_, would get her hands into the hottest spices then inevitably getting it all over her face and into her eyes.

Mercedes demonstrated, touching the tip of her middle finger into the milk. "Just put a little bit on your finger—you see?—then let it drip into your eye."

Bridget did as shown, and after a few more drips and the rapid blinking of her burning eye, she was smiling again, though her eye was still a little residually red and irritated.

"Oh," she said. "Much better."

"There you are," said Mercedes. "No permanent damage."

"Thank you," she said. "I can't believe I did that."

"Everyone does that, sooner or later," she said. "I bet though that you will be much more aware of where your hands are when working with the chilli from now on."

Bridget giggled, which made Mercedes chuckle too. Bridget really was a wonderfully warm and sunny person, and those aspects of her were so contagious it was hard not to like her. So many aspects of Bridget's personality—the stubbornness, the playfulness, the tenacious determination—were so like her girls, it was even harder not to consider her as she would another daughter.

"Now back to our important work," Bridget said, getting back to her feet, grinning madly. "The art of baking that magnificent cake."

………

Mark and Santiago worked nonstop that day, not even breaking for lunch, and when the day ended at six in the evening neither could believe the entire day had passed already.

"It bodes well," said Santiago, "that we have been able to get through today's work so seamlessly. The preliminary things are always the most difficult."

Mark smiled. "Well, working with you has always been a pleasure."

As they climbed into the car to take them back to the house, he heard Santiago chuckle. "And to think trying to bring you in on this project was such a fight. I can't wait until the apologies start rolling in. Hernandez excluded, of course."

At that Mark began chuckling too. "I appreciate your vote of confidence in me."

The two men arrived in the house to the smell of spice and savoury, and found Bridget with chocolate crumbs on the corners of her mouth. Mark laughed. "Cake?"

"How did you know?"

"The evidence left behind speaks volumes," said Mark.

Dinner was, again, outstanding, and Mercedes insisted upon the conclusion of the meal that the two of them return to their cottage so that they might have some time alone together. Immediately upon arriving back in the guest cottage, Mark took her in his arms.

"Now for a proper hello," he said, then bent and kissed her.

"Hello," she said with a smile as he pulled away.

"Did you and Mercedes have a nice day?"

He watched as her face changed subtly. "It was all right, I guess. We made the cake, which was nice, except for me getting chilli in my eye." She indicated the right one.

He interrupted her to place a tender kiss on her eye, which she closed to receive.

"Thank you," she said with an affected pout. "All in all, though, it felt like I was under the watchful gaze of a hawk all day."

"I did ask her to watch you," he said with a smile.

"She doesn't need to literally watch my every move," she replied.

"Darling, don't exaggerate." As she pouted again, he laughed and hugged her once more. "Tell me what else you did today."

"Worked on writing a column while Mercedes did her tasks—and yes, I did offer to help, but she would have none of it. Then we made that amazing cake, and I tried to take notes, but I'm not sure how good they are." Bridget sat on the sofa, or, truth be told, seemed to sink in despair. "Tomorrow we're going to the library."

"Oh, I've heard wonderful things about the library here," said Mark. "I'm sure you'll have a lovely time."

"We'll be going at least three times a week," she continued. "Seems she volunteers there, and the library will be my only chance for internet, since I can't use the one here."

"Security reasons, I'm sure," said Mark, sitting beside her, putting his arm around her shoulders. "I had a good day, too. Very productive."

"That's good," she said.

"And now it's a great day," he said, "because I'm ending it with you."

He heard her laugh. "You end every day with me."

"Mm-hmm," he said. "All of them great."

She laughed again. "You need to get out more."

"Why?" He pulled back, the remnant of a smirk on his lips. "I already have everything I want: worthwhile career, a comfortable existence, and, best for last, a wife whom I love more than anything in this world."

She smiled demurely. "You win," she said; "it's a great day, after all." She kissed him again.

They decided to hop around on the telly to see what kind of programming was available; the connection was apparently satellite and they were able to find a couple of UK channels, though due to the time difference, they were already in middle-of-night programming. To Bridget's delight, though, she found some American channels, and she giddily burrowed herself into the blankets of the sofa watching a brand new episode of _ER_.

"Which one is your Doctor Ross?" Mark asked, watching the show, but not having the slightest idea who any of the characters are.

She turned bright red. "He isn't my Doctor Ross," she said hastily, "and he hasn't been on this show in years."

"Oh," he replied. "So who are these characters?"

"Mark, shush."

Mark of course took it as a challenge; he stood, took off his jacket and his tie, then unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. She did not tear her gaze away from the telly. He sat again, slipped his arm around her shoulders and nuzzled into her neck.

"Mark," she said exasperatedly. "Can't you just sit and wa—_oh_."

His hand had slid up her bare leg and under the edge of her skirt.

"Can't I what?" he asked.

"Control your—"

She stopped suddenly, turning to kiss him passionately on the mouth. Within minutes they were racing up the stairs to the bedroom.

Afterwards, he said, "May I ask you a question?"

"Hmm?"

"Who's the one between us with the lack of control?"

"Shurrup," she slurred, kissing him again.

………

_Friday_

When Bridget woke the next morning Mark was already gone, just like the morning before. She half-wished he would wake her before he left, but by the same token she hated getting up early, so it was probably prudent that he did not. She rose from the bed, showered, and went downstairs to find that Mark had left her some coffee ready to brew. The little note tented by the coffee pot read _Love you_. She smiled and switched the automatic brewer on while she went to dress, comb her hair and put some makeup on.

She was eating another slice of that chilli-chocolate cake for breakfast with her coffee when she heard a slight rapping on the door connecting the cottage to the main house. Furrowing her brow, she went to open it. It was not locked, and in fact, was not equipped with a lock. She knew it was probably just fine, but the big city girl in her was a little nervous at the prospect.

"Good morning, Bridget," said Mercedes; seeing her undoubtedly confused expression, she added, "I hope you slept well. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said. "This door has no lock."

Mercedes laughed lightly. "You are perfectly safe."

"No, I didn't mean to suggest—"

"I know," she said, interrupting gently, smiling. "I was just coming to let you know that the car is on its way."

"The car?"

"To go to the library."

"Oh, right."

"Get your things and I'll meet you in the main house."

Bridget fetched her laptop and her handbag, and within minutes joined Mercedes in the main house. They were then off to the library; Bridget began to be thankful for the outing to arrest her cabin fever, even if it was only to the library.

The building itself was gorgeous; entirely modern and full of light. She set Bridget up in a comfortable area near her desk, had one of the technicians help her connect her laptop to the internet, and pointed out where the English book section was.

After a quick email check (nothing of major importance, just silly messages from Jude and Shazzer), she sent off what she'd written the day before for review by her boss. With any luck she'd have a reply before they left that would provide some guidance for direction. She also checked her favourite websites but within short order she was finished… and utterly bored.

She decided to take a look at the English language book section.

With a quick word to Mercedes and her laptop under her arm, she wandered over to that section. It was not in truth particularly large, and it did not take her long to browse the fiction section, comprised of Shakespeare, some Austen, some other crap she wouldn't be caught dead reading. She sighed heavily, grudgingly browsing the non-fiction section.

One title caught her eye, _because who doesn't love treasure?_ she thought: _The Treasure of the Incas_ by G. A. Henty. Grinning, she flipped the book open to a well-worn section of colour plates.

A small scrap of paper fluttered out. Curious, she reached down and picked it up. "What on earth?" she asked quietly, to no one in particular.

It was a string of alphanumeric characters, long and oddly punctuated with periods. She sat on the floor and, out of habit, typed it into a search window, hitting Enter.

Before she had a chance to examine the results, though, she saw Mercedes approaching from the end of the aisle. She folded her laptop closed and got to her feet. "Hi," she said, blushing as if she had been doing something naughty.

"Bridget, there you are," said Mercedes. "I hate to interrupt you but I could use your help."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all," she said, closing the book on the slip of paper and putting it back from where she had pulled it out.

"You know," Mercedes said sternly, "you should not return the books to the shelves; that is what the cart is for. Come with me. I'll show you what I need you to do."

Surprised at the change in tone, Bridget followed mutely behind Mercedes to a copying machine. "I need a hundred copies of each of these before we go, but I must help Señora Martinez locate the book she placed on hold. Will you watch this for me?"

"Sure," she said, deflated.

"Thank you so much," said Mercedes gratefully before dashing off.

She monitored the copying; thank goodness for the large, colour-coded buttons, as everything on the copier was in Spanish. Mercedes returned just as the last set was through, so she put her laptop back into its bag and they wandered downstairs looking for the car.

They had been out there for some time with no car in sight when Mercedes sighed then dug into her handbag. "I forgot my mobile," she said. "Let me go back inside and make a quick call. Stay right here and don't talk to strangers."

Bridget bristled but forced a smile. She was not a child!

Mercedes must have had some trouble locating a phone inside the library that she could use, because it was taking her forever to return. Bridget paced a bit, looked at her watch and sighed. It was hot outside and she was looking forward to going back for something to eat and a cool drink.

"_Con permiso_," said a voice close to her, startling her. Bridget turned and saw a glamourous looking woman standing there, dark hair, high cheekbones, piercing hazel eyes.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak Spanish," said Bridget, smiling.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said in excellent, unaccented English. "I just wanted to say that if your taxi isn't coming, I could share my taxi if you like." She pointed to a taxi parked at the kerb.

"That is very nice of you," replied Bridget. "Thank you—"

From behind Bridget, Mercedes barked something in Spanish. Bridget turned to face her; she looked positively intimidating. The attractive woman looked startled for a split second, smiled stiffly at Bridget, then walked rapidly away from the street.

Bridget was confused and a little indignant, feeling once again like her status as an adult was somehow in question. "What did you say to her?"

"That I was on to her and she should leave before I call the police."

Bridget's mouth dropped open. "She was offering a ride!"

"No, Bridget," said Mercedes, taking a rather calm, placating tone, as if talking to a slow, easily agitated child. "She was probably trying to get you into a taxi cab, likely driven by her partner, in order to hold you for ransom."

"What? That's absurd!" said Bridget reactively, even as she remembered Mark's warning.

"It isn't absurd," said Mercedes matter-of-factly, leading them to the kerb where the car had appeared. "It happens every day." She smiled. "Come, let's go home. I'll serve up some _chicha morada_. You will love it."

Bridget agreed, and she did end up loving the soft drink, but her mood was still rather put out.

………

Upon their arrival back to the house later that evening, Mark was puzzled by Bridget's rather sullen attitude through dinner and dessert. When Esteban invited Bridget to the kitchen to help make after dinner drinks (she only perked up again at the mention of _pisco_ sours), Mercedes approached him, looking very serious.

"Mark, may I have a word?"

"Of course."

"I don't want you to get upset or angry," she began quietly, sending his stomach into a tailspin, "but I did want to let you know that today we had a… close call."

"What kind of a close call?" he asked gravely.

"I doubt Bridget would have actually accepted the ride because she doesn't know where—"

That was all Mark had to hear. "Do you mean to say she was nearly kidnapped?" he demanded, interrupting his hostess, his heart racing.

Her reply was calm, and calming. "She was approached, is all. I returned in time to warn them off. It was not as if they had her bound and gagged in the boot." She patted Mark's shoulder. "As I said, I doubt she would have gone off without me. But I wanted you to know that I think she's learned her lesson."

"You'll still keep an eye on her?" he asked.

"Of course."

He let out a long breath, running his hand over his face. That must have been the source of her foul mood: the fact that she'd been proven wrong. A small laugh escaped him; at Mercedes' confused look, he explained. She smiled too. "Thank you again," Mark said.

"_De nada_."

Esteban and Bridget returned at that moment; Bridget looked querulously at Mark as she brought him his drink. "What's going on?"

"Mercedes was just filling me in on your day," he said, his voice a little tight.

Bridget flushed red. She knew that he knew. "Oh."

"Yes, 'oh'," he said, bringing the drink to his lips and taking a small sip.

Poor Esteban looked completely lost, but Mark sensed it might be best to leave further discussion about it with her for later.

After enjoying their drinks and some biscuits, Mark grasped Bridget's hand and said, "Thank you once again for a wonderful dinner, for taking such good care of us." His eyes met Mercedes'. "Of my wife."

"It really was nothing," said Mercedes. "She is a dear girl."

Mark smiled, then, with a round of 'good night's, pulled Bridget towards their quarters.

"You don't have to drag me back here like I'm a naughty child," she said. The sullen mood had suddenly returned.

"I'm not dragging you anywhere," he said curtly. "I just didn't want to do this in front of our hosts."

"Do what?" she said with a snort. "Read me the Riot Act? Scold me? Send me off to bed—"

She stopped talking when he swept her into his arms and embraced her tightly; so tightly she seemed to have no choice but to stop. "Let you know how appreciative I am that I am not moving heaven and earth tonight to pull together a ransom."

She said nothing in return, only put her own arms around him.

"Am I right in knowing better than to think you've truly repented?" he murmured.

"Chuh," she said quietly. "I don't know what all the fuss was about. The woman just wanted to share a taxi. There's no proof there was anything nefarious—"

"As I suspected," said Mark, pulling back, refraining from mentioning that she was beginning to sound eerily like her mother. "Just—no taxis alone. Promise me."

"Like I know where I'm going anyway," Bridget said with a pout.

He laughed, then pulled her to him again, giving her a big kiss.

"I think," he said quietly into her ear, "that I will."

"Will what?"

"Send you off to bed," he continued. "As a reminder of how very precious you are to me."

"Oh?"

"Mm," he said, then started placing kisses on her neck.

"Oh," she said, answering her own question. "Such heinous punishment."

………

When Bridget woke from her post-coital doze Mark was not to be found; it was not yet morning according to the clock and the darkness of the sky. She slipped into her dressing gown and wandered back downstairs. She found him sitting at the dining room table, poring over papers that were fanned out around him; he was obviously deep in thought. She decided not to bother him.

Instead, she grabbed her diary, intent on recording the day's events, returning to the bedroom and divesting herself of the robe; as she wrote, hoping Mark would be done soon, the whole thing with the book and the scrap of paper suddenly came back to her. She padded over to the bureau, brought her laptop back to the bed and opened it, looking at the search page results. All hits came back to a book, she realised. The number was an ISBN for a geological survey on South America.

_How strange_, she thought. _Why would someone put a pointer to another book inside a book, in a library?_ She cursed the secure connection that prevented her from following any of the links. She was suddenly curious to return to the library to find this probably dry, dusty book, to see if there were further mysteries to unravel.

………

_Saturday_

_Blast_, thought Mark. After midnight. He hadn't intended on staying downstairs so long, especially as it was Friday night and Saturday's schedule was not only looser but took place here in Santiago's home office. He gathered his papers up and returned them to his attaché, then trudged up the stairs, taking the time to wash up for bed.

When he arrived at the bedroom door he could not help but smile at the sight that greeted him. Bridget was sitting against her propped pillow, diary and laptop on the bed to her left, and she had fallen back to sleep. Gingerly he reached over for the laptop, wondering briefly why she had been staring at a page full of hits referring to an old geological survey (and in Spanish, no less), closed it and plugged it back in to its charger. He swept up the diary as well, setting it on her bedside table, before rounding the bed to his side, climbing beneath the sheets and sidling up to her.

She sighed softly as he slipped his arm over her, snuggling up close. He laid his head on the pillow and was sleeping soundly within minutes.

………

He was gone again. She woke once more to find the bed beside her empty and she cursed quietly under her breath, sitting with the sheet pulled up to her chest.

To her surprise, Mark strode into the room just then, clad in trousers but naked from the waist up.

"Morning, darling," he said, heading right for the bureau, digging for an undershirt. "Didn't expect you to be up already."

"Didn't expect you to be up yet, either," she said; with a playful smile, she leaned forward, stretching out her legs to the side, striking what she hoped would be a tempting pose. He stopped what he was doing and looked to her. "Must you really work today?"

"Unfortunately," he said, not blinking, "I must."

She turned so that she was lying on her stomach, cross-ways on the bed; she still had the linens drawn to her bosom as she rested on her elbows, glancing to him through her lashes, but her bottom was on full display. "Pity," she said.

"Indeed," he said. He set down the undershirt and approached the bed.

"Can't you be just a little bit late?" she asked, turning to lay on her side, the sheet artfully draped over her chest and hip. With bemusement she saw his Adam's apple move as he swallowed hard.

"Perhaps," he said at last, "a little bit."

With lightning speed he shucked his trousers and was in bed beside her, practically pouncing upon her with kisses and caresses, tenderly yet impatiently taking her with heated passion. She felt beamingly radiant in his arms afterwards, sprawled atop him, kissing his ear and throat, stroking his face as he struggled to regain his breath, as they both did.

"I gather that was worth being tardy for?" she whispered into his ear, feeling victorious. She then reared back to properly look at him.

"Hm," he replied; opening his eyes and training them on her, he added, "I'm not tardy."

"Mark, it's almost ten."

"I'm not tardy," he repeated, "and you played right into my hands, as it were." She felt those hands of his race along her back to her backside, which he squeezed playfully.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm not due to work until eleven. In Santiago's office in the main house. I was rather hoping to wake you myself."

She chuckled. "Oh, you sly bugger."

"But I must admit," he went on, "that the sexy poses were an added bonus."

She laughed, then kissed him again, curling as he turned to his side and held her close. It was warm, comfortable and safe, a state she loved immensely.

"Bridget!"

Not realising she had drifted back to sleep, she awoke with a start, found Mark, fully dressed, standing at the foot of the bed.

"What?" she asked drowsily. She was very confused.

"Don't you think it's time to rise and shine?"

She glanced to the bedside clock. It was two in the afternoon. Bollocks.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Peruvian Affair**

Part 4 of 7

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 36,242 (This part: 4,247)

Rating: M / R

Disclaimer, Summary, etc. can be found in Part 1.

* * *

**Chapter 4.**

_Monday, early December_

It had been a wonderful weekend, the capper to their first week in Peru, complete with dinner on Saturday night at the British Embassy and a day of relaxing and lazing about on Sunday, but it had not escaped Mark's notice that Bridget seemed distracted by something. On Monday morning, when she rose with him at six in the morning (normally unheard of for her without an air raid siren-type alarm), gabbling about going to the library, his curiosity could stand it no longer.

"What are you talking about, 'distracted'?" she asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed, duvet around her shoulders. "I'm not distracted by anything. Chuh."

"Bridget, you're awake with me, it's Monday morning, and you seem excited to go back to the library."

"Why wouldn't I be? I love books."

He raised an eyebrow at her as he buttoned his shirt, then strode over for his trousers. "The majority of them are in Spanish."

She pursed her lips; it appeared as if she sensed she would not win this argument. "If I tell you, you will think I'm being ridiculous."

"If you don't tell me," he began threateningly, looking to her again, "I'll come to the library with you to see what this is all about."

She sighed, looking away. "It's just that on Friday, the weirdest thing happened there."

"You mean besides the attempted kidnapping?"

"Quiet," she said. "I was looking through a book in the English language section, and a paper fell out with a long number on it. So I put it into the browser."

Mentally it clicked. "The book you were looking at on your laptop."

"Yes."

"So what do you think this means?"

"Well, I don't know," she said. "That's what I hope to find out."

"It was probably simply a bookmark," he said, fixing his tie. "A page holder using whatever scrap of paper was lying about."

She pouted, but admitted, "You're probably right."

"If it makes you feel better," he said, coming around to plant a kiss into her hair, "go and find this book to satisfy your curiosity."

She smiled wanly up at him.

"And since you're up," he said, "why not come downstairs and breakfast with me?"

Her smile warmed. "All right."

………

It was a lovely breakfast; if not for the early summer sun and impending heat it might have seemed rather like any other morning at home in December in London; setting the newspaper down, Mark finished his coffee and food, rose from the table, and bent to kiss her. "See you for supper."

"I want you to wake me in the morning from now on."

He smiled, kissed her again, then headed for the main house.

She, on the other hand, lingered over her coffee, watching the clouds drift across the sky and the sunlight illuminate the trees in beautiful green hues through the windows, a residual smile on her face. She really was the luckiest woman on the planet.

The knock on the door brought her back to reality.

"Bridget? May I come in? Mark says you are up." Mercedes.

She stood, righted the front of her robe, then called, "Yes, please do." She fought hard not to think of Mercedes as her babysitter; after all, she did like the woman, and she and her husband were being beyond kind to them.

Mercedes, unsurprisingly, was already dressed and perfectly coiffed. "Oh, forgive me! I thought you were already dressed and ready to go. There's a small change of plans. Must leave earlier than we did on Friday. How soon can you be ready?"

"Five minutes," she said, forcing a smile.

"Come over when you're done and we can go."

If not for the mystery of the book, she would have wished she could stay at the house for the day.

Bridget was ready to leave in a little longer than five minutes, but not so long as to irritate Mercedes. She was sure not to forget anything, including her notepad and laptop.

"I had a question, actually," said Bridget as they arrived at the library. "I need help finding a book and was wondering if you could help me."

Mercedes looked surprised. "You need a book from our library for work? I thought you didn't know Spanish."

"I don't," admitted Bridget, "which is part of the reason why I need your help. As for why, it's a long story."

The older woman smiled. "I would be happy to help," she said, "if you don't mind assisting me with some tasks first."

"That's fine," she said, though she would have likely agreed to eating liver and kidneys in order to get assistance in finding the book.

"The copies you made on Friday," Mercedes explained, "I need them to be stapled."

"Oh," Bridget replied. "All right."

"One of each colour paper. Top left corner."

It took her longer than she thought it would, and her hand was sore from pounding the stapler down—_apparently they don't believe in electric staplers_, she thought wryly—and she approached Mercedes with a stack of now-complete handouts and a smile.

"Thank you so much!" Mercedes said. "Now where is this book you need?"

"That's what I need help with. All I have is an ISBN and a title."

Bridget popped open her laptop and gave her the information needed to look it up within the library system, and within a few minutes she had a call number and a location, which she wrote down on a slip of paper. "But I can't show you where this is right now," said Mercedes. "At the end of the shift I can."

"That's all right," said Bridget confidently. "I'll find it myself. Just point me in the right direction of reference."

"I can't let you go on your own," she said, a hint of warning in her voice. "I promised your husband."

"Señora Santiago," Bridget said placidly, aiming for the respect angle, "I think Mark would agree that going to the reference section by myself is all right."

"After the incident on Friday…" she began, raising a brow.

Bridget released a slow, measured breath. "Look, I won't go off with anyone, I promise. I need to spend some time with this book, not just a few minutes before we head for the car to go back to the house."

Mercedes regarded her with the eye of an eagle. "We can stay a little longer so you can look at the book."

Bridget realised there was no winning against the steely matriarch. "Okay, fine," she said in a defeated voice. "I'll just go and sit in the same area I was in on Friday."

"Very well," she said, her eyes sparkling with the victory, then getting down to her work.

Bridget went to the study nook and opened her laptop, but did not once take her eyes from Mercedes. Within minutes Mercedes was being flooded with walk-up requests, and Bridget smirked. She had her chance to find the book. Slowly she closed the laptop and swept it up in her arm.

She looked to the signage for _Referencia_ and found it easily enough. She took a couple more turns down a side aisle, then another, looking for the same number on her slip of paper, until finally, she found it.

The very book itself.

She pulled it out, a fairly large and dusty tome, and started flipping through the pages on the chest-high bookshelf, looking for something to catch her eye, another clue of some sort if there was one to be found.

Oddly, she found one, or at least she thought so. It was not at all what she expected.

On a topographical map of the Lima area, someone—a woman, presumably—had left a kiss-print on the southwest Pacific Coast. She squinted, looking more closely; it was definitely lipstick, Rouge Noir if she knew her Chanel shades, and it appeared to be on the very edge of a—

Bridget had the sudden and certain sense that someone was watching her. She looked up and saw no one. _Just being paranoid,_ she thought. _Just expecting Mercedes to dig her nails into my shoulders or drag me back to her area by the earlobe. _She then saw movement out of the corner of her eye, saw someone moving, and whipped her head around. She actually felt her heart race as she looked to the figure, who had quickly receded into the bookshelves and become engulfed in shadow. Crikey. It meant nothing, she told herself; it was a busy library and getting busier as the morning wore on.

Bridget took the book over to a group of cubicles for reading in the Reference area and, having already become intimately familiar with their copiers, made a copy of the lipsticked page. She closed the book and took it back over to the shelf, carefully returning it to its place.

She folded the photocopy up and stuffed it into her pocket, gathered her laptop up again and made her way back to Mercedes' area.

As soon as she came close she heard Mercedes' voice.

"Bridget! Where were you?" She looked positively on-verge-of-explosion.

Calmly she said, "Loo."

Mercedes raised a single eyebrow but had no response because she couldn't say otherwise.

She resumed her seat at the study nook and opened her laptop to write for work, but she couldn't concentrate on writing. She could only see the image from the book in her head, turning it around in her mind, not able to shake the feeling that it was somehow familiar.

………

It had been another long and gruelling day for Mark and his consortium, and Mark was again very grateful for the opportunity to return to the house and take his wife into his arms for a comforting hug. She was waiting for him when he came into their attached cottage and offered him just that.

"So good to see you," he murmured quietly into her ear.

She tightened her arms around him. "Did you have a good day?"

"Bloody tiring. I'm afraid I'm not going to much company tonight at dinner."

"Poor darling." She brought her hands up around his neck and started massaging the cords back there. He sighed. "How does that feel?"

"Keep it up and I'll be ready to skip dinner," he said.

She laughed, drawing back, raking her fingernails into the hair at the nape of his neck as she did. "Come on, get changed, get comfy and we can go have something to eat."

He headed upstairs, happily divesting himself of the suit, tie and dress shirt, and dressing in a knit shirt and trousers. When he descended she was waiting for him with an angelic smile on her face.

"What are you up to?" he said, feigning seriousness, but still grinning.

She pouted. "I'm not up to anything, Mark."

He slipped a hand along her hip then walked to the main house with her. "It's so much fun to tease you."

She only managed a "humpf" in return, leaning into him.

"So how about you?" asked Mark as they began to eat. "Did you have a good day?"

"Very good. Worked on my piece at the library, emailed Shazzer and Tom."

"What about your book?"

"My what?"

"The book you told me about."

"Oh!" said Mercedes. "You didn't remind me about the book. I'm so sorry. We can look on Wednesday."

"It's all right," said Bridget with what appeared to be a too-bright smile. "I… I got distracted by work. It's not that important anyway. Probably nothing."

Mark said nothing in reply, though was very suspicious, made even more so by her continued best behaviour all through dinner. He was too exhausted to make a point of it, though, and was in fact having trouble just keeping his eyes open. He did manage to finish off his fish without dropping face first onto his plate.

"I hate to be rude," said Mark at the end of the meal, "but I am completely wrecked after today."

"That is not rude," said Mercedes. "You two men have both been working very hard."

"Thanks," Mark said, smiling wanly. "Bridget, if you want to stay for dessert, please feel free, but I've got to head back."

Bridget blinked. "Okay."

He wandered back to the cottage. The staircase seemed too much of a challenge, so he went instead to the sofa, and fell to sleep within moments of his head touching the cushion.

He woke suddenly with the strangest sensation of not knowing what time it was or where he was. He saw Bridget speaking on the telephone but very quietly so not to wake him. He sat, rubbing at his eyes, looking at his watch. To his amazement, only forty-five minutes had passed since he'd left dinner.

Bridget turned as she talked and saw that Mark was awake. She smiled and waved, then said into the receiver, "Yes, Mum, we're having a very nice time here. Yes it's summer. Very warm. Gorgeous." There was a pause. "No, I don't think additional guests would be welcome… for security reasons." She rolled her eyes. "Mark's up. I should go. He wasn't feeling well earlier." He furrowed his brow; she put a single finger over her lips to indicate he should not contradict her. "Talk to you soon. Bye."

She hung up the phone.

"Shazzer explained by email that my mum had been calling her to chat. I thought I'd better be a good daughter and call."

Mark chuckled as she came to sit next to him, wrapping an arm around her.

"How was dessert?"

"Don't know," she said. "Brought it back to eat it with you."

"What is it?"

"Looks like a flan," she said. "Cinnamon on top."

"It sounds delicious."

"I'm sure it is, though I think I'd better let Mercedes know that dessert is not necessary every day, or else I'm going to weigh twenty stone by the time we leave Peru."

"You won't," he said. "If you like I can talk to Mercedes about getting you some exercise in."

"No, ugh," she said. "Bad enough to feel like a child; don't need to feel like a dog on a lead, too."

Mark chuckled, kissing her cheek.

"Did your little nap help?"

"Very much."

She grinned. "Shall I get you your dessert?"

"That would be lovely."

The dessert did in fact look like a flan, and it was absolutely delicious. As he spooned it into his mouth he remembered her docile, angelic behaviour during dinner, and asked, "So what about the book, anyway? You seemed very excited about it last night."

Her deep crimson blush spoke louder than her unconvincing reply: "Oh, I forgot about it."

"Bridget," he said, looking at her with a stern gaze. "You're not telling me the truth."

"Of course I am," she said indignantly.

"Bridget," he said again. "I know you well enough to know that when you have a bee in your bonnet, you don't just forget about it."

She sighed, folding in defeat. She never would have made it through a tough interrogation, he thought bemusedly. "It's just that Mercedes follows my every move. All I wanted to do was go off to look in Reference and she wouldn't let me on my own."

"So you what, snuck off?"

"I…" she began, "…slipped away. Honestly, I'm a grown woman."

"A grown woman who nearly got talked into accepting a ride with a strange woman."

"Don't start that with me too," she said. "I know better now."

He doubted it very much, but he decided to let it slide.

"You'll talk to her, won't you?" Bridget continued.

"About what?"

"Not being quite so… motherly."

"She'll watch you like I would."

Bridget pursed her lips.

"So you found the book?" he continued.

"Yes," she said brightly, apparently forgetting her transgression. "And I think I found the next clue."

_Oh, Jesus_, thought Mark. "Clue?"

"Yes. I'm starting to think this is some kind of treasure hunt. I mean, look at what the title was of that first book!"

Mark looked at her, his expression obviously blank.

"_The Treasure of the Incas_!" she announced.

He tried to remain patient, no patronising tenor in his voice as he gently shifted the subject. "And what is this next clue?"

"Oh!" She dug into her pocket and pulled out the folded paper, carefully opening it up and spreading it flat on her lap. "See?"

"It looks like a smudge on a map."

"It's a kiss!" she said. "The rest of the book is pristine. I flipped through the whole book."

"What does it mean?"

"Haven't figured that bit out yet," she said. "I'm still working on it."

He laughed.

"Don't laugh at me," she said with another pout.

"I never laugh at you, my love," he said, reaching to kiss her. "Always with you."

She leaned back into the crook of his arm, studying the map. "Where all of these topographical lines are close together… that's a sharp incline in height, isn't it?"

"Yep." He leaned forward, kissed into her hair, then delivered a few more kisses.

"Right on the coast."

Between pecks, he said again, "Yep. Like a cliff."

She sat up bolt upright, turning to look at him with wide eyes, her colour pale. "Like the park we went to."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Mark.

"Where there's a statue," she continued, as if trying to lead him to a conclusion she thought was obvious.

"Yes," he said encouragingly.

"With two people kissing," she concluded for him. She pointed to the smudge on the paper. "A kiss."

"Yes, I suppose it could be that."

"It must be!" she said excitedly. "We have to go back."

"We can go back."

"Tomorrow?"

"Bridget, tomorrow is Tuesday. I have to work. It's very important. It's why we're here."

She sighed. She had no way to refute it. "I know," she said at last.

"And if it _is_ something," he said, "you don't even know what it might be."

"I know," she said again sorrowfully.

He reached across the sofa, took her around the waist, and pulled her forward over his lap. "You're being far too serious," he said with a grin, then kissed her.

………

_Wednesday_

"What are you doing?" Mercedes' voice rang out.

"Going to having a cigarette."

"No," she said, not looking from her desk at the library.

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean, you will not go outside to have a cigarette."

"Can't smoke it in here, can I?" she joked.

"No," she said insistently. "You will not go outside to have a smoke alone, and I can't leave. You will also not smoke in the house, out of the house, near the house. Please put it away."

Bridget blinked in disbelief. "All right," she said, surprised at her adamant response. She wondered how many patches her prescription covered.

"You haven't been smoking in the house, have you?" Mercedes asked, narrowing her eyes.

Bridget felt about fourteen again. "Maybe one or two."

"No more. Promise me."

"Sure," she said. She desperately hoped Mark had gotten a lot of patches.

"It's just such an awful habit for a young lady," Mercedes added, her voice much kinder. "I'm certain Mark doesn't approve, either."

She hardly needed reminding of that point. Bridget smiled wanly. "I rarely do it."

Mercedes shot her another look, and Bridget decided on the spot not to belabour the issue. Bridget returned to her table and fired up her laptop again, sighing. Wanting a cigarette and not being able to smoke one made the afternoon trapped in the library an eternity, though she was able to distract herself for a while with finishing up her article and doing a little research for the next one, all the while gabbing with Jude via instant messenger. Bridget had discovered that if she even appeared to be the slightest bit bored, Mercedes would give her some tedious task to do, like sort paper clips or alphabetise requests.

Dinner was slightly unbearable, as she had to endure the whole delicious meal without a replacement nicotine patch (the men were late in arriving and Mercedes insisted she remain with her). It finally felt like the end was in sight when Esteban said, "Well, Mark, shall we?"

"Sure." Mark was grinning. The two men rose from their seats. Bridget was perplexed.

"What are you doing?" she asked, reining in the sudden panic she felt; she didn't want anything to come in the way of getting her patch.

"An associate of Esteban's brought back for him a box of Cuban cigars, and he has invited me to partake in one along with an after dinner drink."

"What?" she asked, shocked.

"I'll prepare them if you give them to me." Mercedes.

Bridget's mouth hung open in what was probably a very ungainly manner.

"I won't be long, darling," said Mark, with an undertone that told her not to argue this in front of their hosts.

"Fine," she said through clenched teeth. She rose from the table and, saying a curt "Good night," she headed back for their cottage.

_Bloody hypocrites!_ thought Bridget. _If I could lock the door on him, I would._

She flipped on the telly and found something entertaining and mindless to try to displace her indignant thoughts (it didn't work very well). An hour and a half later, Mark returned.

She said nothing to him. She pretended like he hadn't appeared in the living room.

"Bridget," he said at last. "I couldn't very well refuse."

She turned her eyes to him, hit him with the full force of her fiercest glare. "I never want to hear a lecture about smoking again. Ever."

"Bridget," he said. "I have smoked exactly three cigars in my entire life. I hardly think this is the same thing."

"How is it not the same?" she said.

"With a cigar, one does not inhale in quite the same way as a cigarette," he said, "and I don't crave a cigar every three hours."

Pouting, she turned away. She felt the sofa beside her sink with his weight.

"What is this really about?"

"It's about hypocrisy," she said. "Not just from you."

"Who else from?"

"Mercedes," she said quietly; she didn't want her voice to carry. "I got a very harsh lecture today from her about how horrible smoking is, what an awful habit it is, with strong undertones of how ashamed I should be for even thinking about it, and, oh yes, I'm forbidden to smoke in or near the house." She sighed. "And then _she's_ the one who offers to snip the cigars or whatever it is you do with them."

She turned her eyes back to him. He looked sympathetic yet amused.

"What's so bloody funny?"

"Bridget," he said. "Haven't you noticed yet that our hostess is a little… set in her ways?"

"What does that mean?"

"She has very specific ideas about gender roles," he explained. "In her eyes, what's right and proper for a man is not always so for a woman."

Bridget recalled that Mercedes had in fact said it was an awful habit _for a young lady_. Bridget sighed.

"I'll tell you what," said Mark, reaching to embrace her; as he did, she could smell the cigar smoke on him, which to her surprise was quite alluring. "I'll dig out a nicotine patch for you and place it wherever you like."

A reluctant smile found her lips. "I think I might be persuaded," she replied.

As it turned out, the small of her back ended up once again being an ideal location for the patch.

………

Bridget was doing it again: dreaming, and from the sound of it, dreaming quite vividly, just as she had on the plane. Her _ohs_ and _ahs_ woke him, and he turned to her, blinking the sleep from his eyes. At least this time they were not surrounded by fellow passengers.

He brushed a hand against her shoulder, which caused her to gasp and moan. He smiled, torn between carrying on and waking her. Ultimately, though, he knew he could not take advantage of her while she was not present in the moment. He shook her gently by the shoulder. "Bridget, darling, wake up."

"_Ohhh_, Mark," she breathed.

_At least it's not Dr Ross this time_, he thought bemusedly as he said again, more firmly, "Bridget! Wake up."

Her eyes shot open in a flash. "Oh! Oh God!" It seemed to take her a moment to get her bearings.

"You were dreaming again, weren't you?" he asked, fighting a smirk.

"No," she said far too quickly.

"Bridget, you most certainly were," he said. "It's not like it's anything to be embarrassed about."

"Not embarrassed," she said, though he knew she was blazing with colour. "I just don't know where this is coming from. This never happens to me."

"It's all right," he said, taking her in his arms, kissing the top of her head.

"Maybe I need to see a doctor," she said meekly.

"I don't think you need a doctor."

She went silent; he felt himself drifting back to sleep when she spoke up again:

"Mark?"

"Yes, darling?"

"You woke me at a very… inconvenient moment."

He fought the urge to chuckle, and decided to play along. "Oh really?"

"I think you know you did." She turned over, and he could see her eyes shining in the scant light in the room. "Will you humour me, please?"

"That," he said, pushing himself up in order to push her back down, "is a euphemism if ever I heard one."


	5. Chapter 5

**The Peruvian Affair**

Part 5 of 7

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 36,242 (This part: 4,864)

Rating: M / R

Disclaimer, Summary, etc. can be found in Part 1.

* * *

Back to Part 4.

* * *

**Chapter 5.**

_Thursday_

The thought of waiting until Saturday or Sunday before they could go back to the park was making Bridget mental. If she could only pull one of the drivers aside and ask them to drive her there, she could see for herself what there was to be seen.

If she only knew what she was looking for.

Bridget wracked her brains trying to remember if anything in particular about the statue at the park had stood out to her. Admittedly, though, when they'd been to the park just after their arrival, she hardly thought she'd need to memorise the thing.

"Bridget," said Mercedes. "I'm sorry to bother you."

She looked up from the book she held in her lap but hadn't actually begun to read. "No, it's all right. Is something wrong?"

"Well, today I have to make a special trip to the library for a meeting," she said, looking quite disturbed. "I completely forgot. Would you be ready to go in a few minutes?"

"Sure."

She grabbed her bag and her laptop and then decided to grab her camera as well. She wasn't exactly sure what her plan was, but she figured she'd take advantage of any further opportunities should they arise. Plus, she was certain that the library wasn't far from the park.

To Bridget's surprise, their driver was the same one who had met Mark and herself at the airport; he greeted her with a smile and asked her how she was.

"Oh, I'm doing very well. Love what I've seen of your country."

Luis beamed proudly.

"The meeting will run about two hours," Mercedes said. "For the sake of your husband, please just stay in the usual area. I'll come and find you when it's over, then we can leave straightaway. Luis will be waiting for us."

Bridget's heart raced. This could be her chance; Luis was an ally. She could probably easily persuade him to take her there. And if by some strange chance she got caught, surely Mercedes (and Mark) would not be as angry knowing she'd been with Luis.

The drive, as always, was not very long, but Bridget was careful to look around herself with a keen eye as they drove to the library. She could see no signs pointing to the park, but Luis would know the way.

Bridget settled into her usual study cubicle and with a smile, Mercedes headed for the meeting, glancing back once before disappearing from sight around a tall shelf. Bridget waited for about three minutes before gathering her stuff up again, then headed for the exit and directly for Luis and the car.

"Señora," Luis said, clearly surprised to see her. "What are you doing?"

"I need a huge favour. I'm writing a piece on the sights of Lima," she said, lying wildly, "and when my husband and I went to the Parque del Amor, I didn't have my camera. I just found out that my editor's asked me to include a photo of the famous statue and my deadline is tomorrow. The soonest I could possibly go with Mark would be Saturday." She sighed. "You see my dilemma."

"Of course," he said.

"Can you possibly run me over there while Señora Santiago is in her meeting?" She gave him her saddest, most pathetic look. "Please?"

Luis studied her for a moment before smiling. "Certainly, Señora."

"Please feel free to call me Bridget," she said, grinning, as she climbed back into the car.

Bridget had been right. The two were no more than half a dozen kilometres apart, and they were there in no time at all.

"Shall I wait here?"

"No, please, come with me, if you don't mind. I'd feel safer."

He smiled. "Certainly." She had to restrain herself from running to the statue.

Her eyes frantically searched the statue for anything out of place. Huge and hulking, yet somehow still beautifully sensuous, she encircled the statue with her camera poised and ready, snapping shots so that her lie would not fall flat. She took shots upwards the actual kiss itself, shots of the dedication plaque, shots from a distance and close up, and a series of shots around the statue, covering all angles she could manage to cover. She still saw nothing. To say she was disappointed was an understatement.

Deflated, she packed her camera and plastered a big smile on her face. "I think that'll do very nicely, Luis. Thank you so, so much."

He smiled. "It was my pleasure."

"Oh, and if you could not say anything about this to Señora Santiago," said Bridget, "she might not approve of me going off on my own." That at least was not a lie.

"It is our secret, Bridget," said Luis.

The drive back to the library took a little longer, but she slipped back into the library and took a seat at the very same cubicle she'd earlier vacated.

She could hardly believe she'd gotten away with it, even if in the end it seemed to have been a pointless endeavour. The grin on her face was indelible for the rest of the day.

………

Due to the nocturnal interruption the previous night, Mark had gone into his day a little more tired than usual, not that he minded relieving his wife's suffering under any circumstances. However, Esteban seemed to notice his fatigue and decided to end the work day a little early when they got to a good stopping point.

"Really, I'm fine. We don't have to break this up on my account."

"Mark, my friend, you do not look fine, if you will pardon my saying so," Esteban said, folding his papers back into his attaché. "You need a good meal and a rest."

Mark smiled tiredly. "Thanks, Esteban. I guess I am dragging a little."

"Is everything all right with you and your lovely bride?"

Mark blinked in surprise. "Everything's fine," he said. "Why would you ask otherwise?"

"She looked very upset last night," said Esteban.

Mark then explained the story to him in brief terms. "I guess from her point of view, it did seem a little hypocritical of me."

"I never would have asked you to join me in a cigar if I thought it might upset your wife," said Esteban. "I hope she will forgive me."

"Oh, don't worry about that. She doesn't hold grudges for something so insignificant. She also knows you would never willingly offend her."

"I'm glad to hear that." Esteban smiled. "You should, however, feel free to refuse anything I ask of you that might upset your wife."

"Fair enough." The elevator arrived at that moment, and they boarded it. "You know, she is constantly trying to quit, but I think there's something about the act of smoking she finds pleasurable. And after having that cigar last night, I think I can understand it a little better."

"She should try the nicotine patches. That's what I used to quit."

Mark was surprised that Esteban had been a smoker. "She has tried those a few times, but she always seems to fall off that wagon in favour of actually, well, smoking."

"Do the side effects bother her?"

"Side effects?"

"The skin can get very irritated where the patch is. And then there's the nightmares. I had to take mine off while I slept."

Mark stared mutely at Esteban for a moment. "Nightmares?"

"Oh yes," he said as the lift reached the ground floor. "Very intense, very vivid. Sometimes it's not nightmares at all, just regular dreams that are very intense. Some people actually like that."

Mark was at a loss for words. Could it have been that simple an explanation for Bridget's dreaming? Both instances had, after all, occurred after the placement of nicotine patches. He found himself starting to chuckle as they approached the car.

"What's so funny?" asked Esteban.

"I do in fact think the side effects were bothering her, and therefore, me."

Esteban smiled. "I understand." _Bloody hell_, thought Mark. The man seemed to have drawn the correct conclusion. "You'll probably want to have her take it off before bed, though she may struggle with craving in the morning."

"I'll let her know."

They got into the car. "How is her work going?"

"Pretty well, from what I can tell," he said. "We talk about work, but we don't go into great detail. I think she's writing about Lima now."

"Yes," came an unexpected voice from the front seat. Mark realised it was Luis, the driver who had picked them up from the airport. "She mentioned that today."

"You have seen my wife?" Mark asked, curious.

"_Sí_, I drove her and Señora Santiago to the library today, then for Bridget to take her pictures."

"Pictures?"

"_Sí_. She told me she had to take pictures for her deadline tomorrow."

A cold chill curled through Mark's stomach. He asked, though he had a feeling he already knew the answer, "Where did you take her?"

"To _El Beso_. She seems to like that statue very much."

Mark felt his jaw set tightly with his anger. "Oh."

"Don't worry," continued Luis, "I was with her the entire time. She said she'd feel safer that way."

"I'm glad to hear that," said Mark in reply. At least she had the sense to ask for the driver to accompany her.

The rest of the ride was spent in comfortable silence, and it was just as well, because it gave Mark a chance to try to calm his irritation. He was sure that Mercedes had no knowledge of the foray to the park.

"Have a pleasant evening, Luis," said Esteban. "Thank you again."

"Yes, thank you."

"Gentlemen," said Luis, "to you as well."

Esteban was greeted at the door by his wife, but Bridget was not to be found. "Where is my wife?"

"Oh," Mercedes said, "she asked me to ask you to go and wake her when you came in, so she could have dinner. She was feeling very tired."

_I'll bet she was_, thought Mark, thinking of her afternoon intrigue. He caught Esteban smiling again. "Ah. I'll be right back then."

He was sure to slip out of his shoes before heading up to the master bedroom in their cottage, in order to approach with stealth. He slowly pushed open the door, saw that she was lying across the bed with her cheek on her elbow, sleeping, her laptop opened before her, the screensaver in full swing. He reached over and, without waking her, swept his fingers across the touch pad, which turned off the screensaver, revealing what she'd been looking at.

It was a close up of the statue in the park, _El Beso_ as he recalled.

He folded the laptop closed, slipped it off of the bed, then kneeled beside her. She snapped awake instantly. "Was just researching," she blurted.

He tried not to laugh; he was supposed to be scolding her. "Researching what?"

"Places for my article."

"Which places?"

"Oh, you know…" she began, faltering. "Places around Lima."

"It's a pity we didn't bring the camera when we went sightseeing." He strode over to where it sat on the bureau, turning it on. "Could have had a lot of lovely photos."

She sat up, looking distinctly nervous. "That's true."

He pressed the button to review the photos that were taken. There were about two dozen photos of the statue. He then raised his eyes to her, turning up the intensity a hundredfold. "Photos for an article, hm?" he asked darkly. "Deadline tomorrow?"

She pursed her lips.

"Bridget, that was a very foolish thing to do."

"I took precautions," she said quietly. "I just didn't want to wait until the weekend."

"If you wanted to have Luis take you to the park," he said thunderously, "I would have asked him myself."

She blinked. "Oh."

"Bridget," he said. "I don't assume you're an idiot, or a child. If you can make arrangements like you did today for an errand you want to run apart from Mercedes or myself, even if it's this silly goose chase you insist on participating in, I'm not going to forbid you. I would have thought you'd have known enough to do so, that I wouldn't have to explicitly say so."

She looked chastened. "Sorry."

He sat beside her, leaned to wrap his arm around her, and pressed a kiss into her temple. "I love you, I want to protect you—" he began.

She interrupted with a dismissive sound. "Don't I know it," she said.

"—but I know I can't keep you from the things you want to do. Can't keep you locked away. We've seen how well that works, haven't we?"

He heard her sputter a light laugh. "Besides. Wouldn't look good for a human rights lawyer to do that to his wife," she said, joking weakly.

He chuckled. "I mean it though about not going off on your own, okay?" She nodded grudgingly. "Come on," he said. "Supper's ready." He rose from the bed, pulling her to her feet. "I have some good news, by the way."

"Oh?"

He grinned. "I know why you've had those vivid dreams."

Her eyes went very wide. "Do you?"

"I do." His hand came around her waist, resting on the small of her back, atop the little square adhered to her skin, which he could feel through the fabric of her shirt. "Side effect from this innocent-looking little thing."

"The patch? Are you kidding?" She pushed away to meet his eyes.

"I'm not."

"Do I want to know how you learned this?"

"Mr Santiago was once a smoker."

She blanched. "Please don't tell me you discussed my dreams with Santiago."

"Of course not," he said. "Though I think he might have guessed."

"Oh, God," she said, clearly mortified.

"It's all right, love." He drew her near again. "He knows we're relatively newly married and deeply in love. It's not really much of a stretch to think we have sex occasionally."

That got her to laughing, just as he intended. "'Occasionally'? You have a very strange definition of that word, Mark Darcy."

"It does bring to mind, though, the possibility of other side effects." He slipped his hand down, lifting her skirt, causing her to squeal and laugh at the same time.

"Mark!" she said in surprise. "Dinner!"

"Just have to make sure there's no irritation, swelling or discomfort," he said matter-of-factly. "Does it hurt when I do this?" He pressed his fingers into the skin just under the patch, right where her bottom started to curve out.

"Not in the slightest," she returned. "Might need to have you have a closer look later, though."

"Would be glad to," murmured Mark before releasing her from his arms. "Onward to supper."

………

Esteban had mentioned Mark's strange reaction in the car to something the driver said, then what the driver had said; it was then that Mercedes realised that Bridget had left the library while Mercedes was in her meeting. In turn she felt angry and that she had failed Mark, and waited for their arrival, for his inevitable words of disappointment. Mark would never say so in a harsh way, but she was sure he would tell her she had let him down.

She would meet him head on, let Mark know just how much she disapproved of Bridget taking off from the library.

"What's taking them so long?" asked Esteban, sitting at the table, unfolding his napkin.

"I'm sure they'll be down," she said. "Bridget can be stubborn. Perhaps he is having trouble rousing her from sleep."

"Stubborn, eh?" said Esteban. "You would know nothing about this."

"Oh, quiet," she said, smiling at her husband.

Their two guests showed just then, looking slightly abashed. "Sorry for the delay."

"It is all right," said Mercedes. "Before I serve dinner, though, let me apologise to you, Señor Darcy."

"For what?"

"Your wife snuck away out from my care, and off with the driver in order to go off to take some photos. I am sorry that I could not trust him to bring her back to me at once."

She saw Mark blink, as if surprised. "Mercedes, I appreciate your candour, but I have discussed this with Bridget already."

"I'm sorry," said Bridget. "I should have cleared it with Mark (and yourself of course) before taking off like that."

"Should she need to run an errand," said Mercedes, meeting Mark's eyes, "she need only ask me."

"I've already told her that such an arrangement with the driver is fine, if she just lets you and I know first."

"With the driver? No. That's not safe enough. I am very fond of our drivers but there have been problems in the past with… corruptibility. It may prove too great a temptation, the wife of an English lawyer working to rid the country of the illicit drug trade."

Mark looked thoughtful. "Yes. You make an excellent point."

"Mark!" said Bridget, exasperated.

"I'm sorry, love," said Mark. "Things are very different here."

Mercedes watched Bridget sink back into her chair before serving dinner. _The poor girl looks miserable_, she thought, _but it really is for her own good._

As Mercedes took her place at the table, she suddenly felt badly for causing her such strife. "Bridget," she said. "How would you feel about a little shopping tomorrow? I did promise."

She raised her eyes, which had brightened considerably. "That'd be nice. Thank you." Bridget smiled, then dug into her meal, her appetite apparently unabated.

Mercedes then glanced to Mark, who mouthed a silent _Gracias_ to her. She nodded, smiling in return.

………

_Friday_

"There are some wonderful stores here in Lima I think you will love," Mercedes said, looking to Bridget with a smile. Bridget smiled in return, finally glad to have something fun to do.

"What sort of shops?" she asked, then settled back into the seat of the car.

"Traditional crafts all the way to American-type shopping malls," the older woman replied. "We can hit a variety of stores this morning."

"Oh, goody," said Bridget.

From there, it was a whirlwind of sights and sounds, colours and textures; Bridget realised that had she attempted to go shopping on her own she would have been overwhelmed, not to mention taken advantage of. Bridget made only a few purchases that morning: a traditional doll because she loved the vibrant garb she wore, and a pair of colourful hand-crafted boots for herself. She wouldn't be able to wear them until she got back to London, because they were for winter weather, and there in sweltering hot Lima, it was anything but.

"Definitely in need of refreshment," said Mercedes, seeing the undoubtedly glazed look in Bridget's eyes. "I think we should stop for lunch. After all, it is almost time for the midday break."

"Very excellent idea," said Bridget, perking up considerably.

They ate at a wonderful little upscale restaurant that Mercedes clearly frequented often, as the owner himself came out to greet her and to bring her to a secluded corner table obviously designated for persons of importance. They had a spicy seafood dish; Mercedes insisted she try the Inca Kola, a fizzy soda drink that to Bridget tasted of bubble gum. They ate leisurely, finishing the meal with dessert and a spicy hot chocolate drink instead of coffee. Bridget wondered idly how she ever got along without chilli-chocolate before.

"Ready for the next round?" said Mercedes with a devilish grin.

Bridget offered an equally devilish grin in return.

They hit a new array of stores, where she found a wonderful little present for Mark: a pair of boxers in traditional Peruvian patterns and those vivid colours they seemed to love so much. She however had to make the purchase on the sly while Mercedes was occupied at another counter. The older woman would have been scandalised had she seen them. To cover up the secret purchase she also bought Mark some lovely hand-crafted silver cufflinks of an abstracted representation of an Incan goddess.

"She's the goddess of health, wealth and happiness. I hope your husband likes them," said the cashier, a woman probably no older than Bridget herself. She then leaned in close. "She has an interesting history, too."

Bridget was curious, but saw Mercedes approaching.

"Your friend Señora Santiago is returning and will not find the history appropriate for a visitor to our country, so I won't keep you," said the cashier, seeing Bridget's look of apprehension. "I'll put some information in the bag with the cufflinks for you."

"Thanks," said Bridget with a relieved smile.

"All finished?" asked Mercedes.

"Yes," said Bridget, tucking the bag closed and turning to face her friend with a smile. "Found something lovely for Mark."

"How sweet of you," said Mercedes, then shocked her by adding, "whatever that gift may be; I won't pry."

Bridget smiled beatifically. She honestly couldn't wait to see what the cashier had given her.

………

That night upon arriving home, he found Bridget watching television, which she switched off the moment he came in and got to her feet, a huge smile on her face. The change from last night was such a marked difference that was wonderful to see. He beamed a smile to her in return.

"I take it the shopping went well?"

"Yes," she said. "We had a wonderful day. Mercedes was really very good company, very easy to talk to, and between the shopping, we had lunch at a really excellent restaurant. She has really great taste in food and in clothes."

"I'm really glad to hear that." It was nice to know that Bridget didn't think of the older woman as some sort of evil babysitter.

"By the way," she added with a smile, "I have a present for you."

"A present?"

"Two actually." She went to the table and fetched a bag. "I hope you like them."

He took the bag and pulled a riotously coloured pair of cotton boxer shorts out of the bag. "These are marvellous," he said, chuckling. "I can't wait to wear them."

She smiled even more broadly. "Open the other one, and be sure to read the informational thing in there with it," she said cryptically.

In the bag was a small box, within which contained a pair of cufflinks that appeared to be intricately designed roundels, and a folded sheet of note paper, upon which read:

_Usually depicted as a beautiful and flirtatious woman, Kuka Mama (also known as Mama Coca or Cocomama) is traditionally known as the Incan goddess of health, wealth and happiness. She is also the patroness of recreational drugs, particularly cocaine and coca leaves, which the Inca believed brought health and happiness._

He looked up to Bridget. "I love these, but I'm not sure my wearing them is a good idea, with the work I'm doing."

"Mark, you can hardly tell what that's supposed to be, aside from an Incan-themed disk," she said. "Keep reading."

_Legend says that Kuka Mama was a promiscuous woman who inspired such jealousy in her lovers that they cut her to pieces. Her body then grew into the first coca bush, the leaves of which were chewed for good health. In deference to Kuka Mama, men were only supposed to chew coca leaves after giving a woman an orgasm._

At reading that last bit, which was underscored with red and a huge smile face drawn next to the word, he laughed out loud and looked to Bridget, who looked amused and smug.

"I swear I bought them before I read the legend," she said, smirking. "But if I could, I'd give you the world's biggest pile of coca leaves."

He laughed again. "You can just buy me some peppermint chewing gum and call it even."

"Deal."

She went up to him and gave him a hug; he buried his nose in her hair and inhaled deeply, wondering yet again how he would have been able to get through his stay in Peru without her.

With a parting kiss to the top of her head, he stepped back, set his gifts down, and put his arm around her shoulders. "We should go join our hosts for dinner."

"Actually," said Bridget, "we're on our own for the night."

"We are?"

"Mm, yes," she confirmed. "Mercedes made us a little casserole-sort of thing for dinner, but she and Esteban had an engagement out of the house."

"Esteban didn't mention it," said Mark.

"I think it was sort-of last minute," she replied. "I hope he didn't have anything important planned for the night."

"Thankfully, no." He directed Bridget instead to the little table. "Nothing more important than dinner."

It appeared to Mark that she'd attempted an English-style shepherd's pie which was very tasty, though not at all like any shepherd's pie he'd ever had before. She'd left them some dessert as well, more of the cinnamon flan, which he and Bridget, each a little squiffy from wine with dinner, fed to each other, leading to inevitable mess on mouth requiring immediate cleanup… which led them racing up the stairs, giggling madly and pulling on arms in order to get there first, tumbling onto the mattress, and having quite a heated round in bed.

Mark was dozing off, still smiling in a most satisfied manner, when Bridget said unexpectedly, startling the living hell out of him, "Take me back there tomorrow?"

"What?"

She raised her head to look him square in the eye. "To the store."

"I can't believe you," he said, laughing low in his throat. "All rosy in the afterglow and your mind is on shopping."

"I wanted to mention it while I was thinking about it," she said, her lip curled in a proto-pout. "So will you?"

"Certainly, love," he said, closing his eyes, taking in a deep, slow breath, then exhaling similarly. "You could probably ask me just about anything in this state and I'd agree."

She giggled, then laid her head back on his shoulder. "I shall have to remember that in future."

………

_Monday, end of week two_

It was starting out to be a wonderful Monday already. The shopping excursion on Saturday had been a success; Mercedes had loved her light silk scarf and was proudly wearing it that morning as they bustled around to get ready to go to the library.

"I have lots to do today," said Bridget. "Article due, so I'll be a busy bee."

Mercedes smiled. "I understand. Mark has often said how talented a writer you are. I would love to read your work sometime."

She felt her smile turn a little nervous. The subjects of her columns were far more liberal and forward-thinking than she perceived Mercedes to be. "Sure," she said. "I'll dig up a couple for you."

Once at the library, it wasn't long before she'd finished the article, gave it a read-through with a critical eye before sending it off to be edited. She glanced at the time on the laptop. Still only eleven in the morning. They had at least an hour before they'd be leaving.

Shaz just then appeared in her instant messaging program. Bridget thought she'd never been so thankful for her timing. She typed in a _Hi!_

_Hey, B_, replied Shaz. _Is probably sunny and lovely there. Fucking snowing like mad here._

Bridget tried not to laugh out loud. _Was clear blue sky when got here this a.m. Probably too hot out now._

_Send me some summer sun, willya?_ came the reply a few minutes later. _Grey, cold, fucking depressing December here._

Grinning, she navigated to the folder with her photos of the park. She browsed the folder trying to decide which of the photos to send her, then finally picked the wide angle shot of the park, the Pacific Ocean in the background. _Here you are_, she typed, and was about to upload the photo when her eye was caught on something in one of the close-ups of the dedication plaque. It had, upon direct inspection, looked like a nothing more than a smudge, but out of the corner of her eye it had almost seemed to take shape, like it was a letter, or a…

It was a number. A pair of numbers. To be more precise, the number 76.

She gasped, then clamped her hand over her mouth. There were other numbers there. She could definitely see shapes, a little oddly distorted, now that she knew where to look. She double-clicked on the photo to open it in an image editing program when her instant message icon jumped impatiently.

_Pic, B?_

_Sorry_, she typed quickly. She uploaded the picture, the panorama of the park.

_B?_ came the reply a moment later. _I hate you._ This was followed by a smiley icon.

She smiled, but was suddenly too distracted by trying to make the numbers out. _Shaz, gotta go._

_Fine_, Shaz said a moment later. _Leave me to my doom and gloom._ Another smiley icon indicated she was again only kidding. _We'll talk soon. Love to you and Mark._

_Love to all of you too_, she responded, before closing the messaging program.

She used her graphics program to increase the contrast and brightness, and before too long, she could distinctly see a set of four numbers.

7-6-9-9.

What did it mean, though?


	6. Chapter 6

**The Peruvian Affair**

Part 6 of 7

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 36,242 (This part: 5,902)

Rating: M / R

Disclaimer, Summary, etc. can be found in Part 1.

* * *

**Chapter 6.**

_Thursday_

The days really had seemed to find their own groove; there were the mornings at the library, and the afternoons and free days were spent reading, watching telly, or, more often than not, baking or otherwise helping Mercedes in the kitchen. Bridget had really come to enjoy that time with her, even if she did frequently make Bridget feel like a child in comparison to her apparently effortless skill in the kitchen.

"Oh, but it is many years of cooking and baking," Mercedes said modestly. "And you can practically make the chocolate cake without asking me anything anymore."

Bridget grinned. "Well, I do have motivation," she said, "because when we return to England, I'll be making this all the time."

It struck Bridget suddenly that they had already been in Peru for two weeks, that they were probably close to halfway through their trip there. As much as she missed home, missed her friends, family, her own bed, she found herself feeling a little sad to think they'd be leaving sooner than later.

"Are you all right?"

"Me?" she said. "Yes, fine. Just thinking we're probably a couple of weeks from leaving."

Mercedes smiled sympathetically. "You must miss home very much."

"Yes," she replied, "though I must admit to a certain delight to the thought of having Christmas in summer."

Mercedes chuckled, folding the kitchen towel she'd been using over a rack to let it dry. "Esteban says that the business that your husband is here to do should be concluded before Christmas, so I guess you'll have a choice to stay or not."

The thought of having a dedicated holiday—where Mark was not working all day five days a week, and part of the weekend—was very, very appealing to Bridget, and she smirked.

One thing Bridget had not yet learned was to be patient in waiting for that cake to be finished cooling sufficiently to serve, and as she took out a slice to put on a plate, it fell apart into a million pieces.

"Oh well," she said, tamping at the crumbs with the tines of her fork then eating them, "I know there's something to be said for presentation, but it's not like it affects the taste of the cake any."

Mercedes smiled again. "You make me miss my girls so much, Bridget," she said. "And when you're gone, I'll miss your company very much, too."

Bridget felt herself get a little emotional. For all of her mother-hen-ness, her over-protectiveness, her maddening rules about smoking, she really was a very good woman. Her first instinct was to invite her sometime to London, but the reality of it was being hostess to an older, more set-in-her-ways woman from a completely different culture as her own would probably not be the best idea. Plus, asking without consulting Mark first would have been a very, very bad idea.

Instead, she said, "I'll miss yours, as well."

………

Bridget did not seem her usual perky self when Mark arrived at home. He gave her an extra tight hug at seeing her. "Everything all right?"

"Yes," she said. It was not convincing.

"Did you have another battle of wills with Mercedes?" Mark teased.

She pulled back; he was surprised to see her looking slightly offended. "Quite the opposite," she said. "We had a very nice day. But I've just realised today that our trip's probably halfway done."

He was surprised to see her so sullen at the prospect. "I'd've thought you'd be looking forward to going home."

"Oh, I am," she said. "But I'll miss things about here too. Inca Kola, _pisco_ sours…"

He chuckled. "They have Peruvian restaurants in London, my love."

"It's not all about the food." She looked hesitant. "I'll even miss the Santiagos."

Mark was privately amused. She was actually going to miss her 'babysitter'.

"It makes me happy to hear your days with Mercedes have been good ones."

"Are we staying through Christmas?" she asked suddenly. "Because I think I'd like to."

Mark grinned. He knew that their work would be done in about a week's time, and he had planned on asking Bridget about whether she wanted to go back right away, or stay for a little longer. "We can stay. Christmas on the beach, I must admit, sounds extremely appealing."

She smiled, then hugged him again.

………

_Friday_

"What's this all about?"

It was a master template for some kind of flyer she found on the desk Mercedes had asked her to straighten up; she also realised she had seen the flyers hanging around areas of the library but had not remembered to ask about it. Bridget couldn't understand the Spanish text, but the photos of people smiling and holding up plastic boxes intrigued her.

Mercedes pointed to a word at the top of the page. "Geocaching," she said. "It's a little like a treasure hunt." Bridget perked up at the thought. "You put a set of latitude and longitude into one of those devices, GPS, I think it's called, and then use the GPS to find your way to it."

"Ooh!" Bridget said excitedly. "That sounds like terrific fun!"

"The library is sponsoring it as a charity event," she went on to explain. "For a small fee you can sign up to participate."

"When is it?"

"Tomorrow morning."

With a smirk, Bridget decided that Mark would need to take the day off so that they could do this together. She imagined his reaction: slight surprise, disbelief, reluctance, then finally acceptance. "Where do we sign up?"

Mercedes grinned.

………

"You want to what?" Mark asked.

"Go geocaching."

Mark furrowed his brow. "What on earth is that?"

"Well," she explained, "I don't have the details, but apparently, you are given a set of coordinates, punch them into a GPS unit, then have to use the machine to find the treasure."

"Ahhh," said Mark, understanding at last. "Aren't we a little old for that?"

"It's not a children's event, Mark," said Bridget. "Children can't operate GPS units." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a bright pink flyer, unfolding it. She pointed out the picture of the woman and man holding up what he suspected was the treasure, the cache.

"And what about the GPS unit? I don't have one."

"I already asked Mercedes. A local electronics store is loaning some for the event."

Mark sighed. "I'm not sure I can take the time off," he said.

Inexplicably, she began to chuckle. "Mark, I already know that you and Esteban are ahead of schedule. Not working a few hours tomorrow morning isn't going to be the end of the world."

He looked to the ceiling for a moment as if for heavenly guidance. He didn't see anyway around this, and it was frankly nice to see her so enthusiastic about this. "All right," he said at last. "Sign us up."

She grinned devilishly. "Already did." She bounced up onto her toes, threw her arms around his neck, and pecked a kiss in his lips. "I knew you'd give in."

He laughed low in his throat. "And you didn't even wait until after sex."

"Well," she said matter-of-factly, "it _is_ tomorrow, and didn't want to wait that late."

………

_Saturday_

Of course, the day planned for an extended day outside was the warmest day of the week so far. Mercedes had found hats for both of them, packed them something to eat, and gave them bottles of water with ice and lemons in them.

Mark was actually beginning to look forward to this for both the mental and physical exercise, a change of pace from working, eating and sleeping. He also was looking forward to spending the morning with his wife, whom he saw every day, but had not been able to spend appreciable time with but for a day and a half on the weekends.

They went to the library to pick up their GPS unit and their coordinates, and with a little help and an amusing exchange between himself and the library volunteer in a combination of broken Spanish and English, he was able to get the coordinates inputted.

Bridget watched the entire time. "What does the 'O' stand for?" she asked, referring to the letter after the degrees and minutes of the coordinates.

"'_Oeste_'," explained Mark. "West. 'S' is for '_sur_'. South."

"Oh." She seemed to be studying the numbers an exceedingly long time. "So… latitude is twelve degrees, six feet south? Or is that inches?"

Mark could not resist the laugh that bubbled up. "Not feet or inches, love. Minutes."

"What does time have to do with this?"

"It doesn't. Minutes are a sixtieth of a degree."

"That doesn't make any sense." She held the paper up. "So that makes the longitude seventy-six degrees, ninety-nine minutes—" She stopped, going slightly pale.

"Are you all right?"

"What?" She looked up. "Yes, I'm fine. It's just a bit warm out here."

"Have some water."

Bridget took a long draw from her water, then lowered it, smiling up at Mark. "Thanks."

………

It had to be a huge coincidence. There was no other explanation for the same set of numbers—7-6-9-9—that appeared on the _El Beso_ statue to be the second set of coordinates in their geocaching target.

As it turned out, Mark picked up how to use the GPS unit in a remarkably short amount of time, and after a few false starts in the wrong direction, they were very quickly traversing the city streets and narrowing the distance between where they were and where they needed to be.

Bridget felt her heart starting to race as they closed in on their target location… shortly to be revealed as a park; to be more precise, Pq. Mariscal Gamarra, according to the sign.

"This makes sense," said Mark, looking around to the green and trees around them. "To hide the cache in a park."

"Let's find it," said Bridget excitedly. "I want to see what's been hidden."

She knew that look in Mark's eyes; he was undoubtedly having a nice time, but he was more excited that she was having so much fun.

"So where do you think it might be?" he asked, looking around the park. There were all manner of rocks, benches trees and other foliage that the plastic cache case could be hidden under, by, or near.

"Doubt they'd hide it in too hard a place for a library charity event," she said, squinting as she lowered her sunglasses. "I mean, how unsatisfying would it be to pay to participate in this and not find the treasure?"

"The cache, Bridget," he corrected.

"Yes, the cache," she said in a disconnected tone. To be honest, she was thinking less of the cache, and more of the number string in the photo at _El Beso,_ whether the end game of her little mystery could also possibly be at this very same park. Her eyes were scanning for other suspicious sign as well as the cache; it was obvious that another foray without Mark was going to be required.

Walking along the path, they were led to a covered gazebo, octagonal in design. It was prettily decorated with flowers and a bench rounding the outer lattice. Bridget raced forward and up into the gazebo, turning and looking around, eyes frantically searching for something out of the ordinary. Nothing. She then glanced up and immediately saw, bungee-corded to the inner post, a small plastic box. "Mark!" she gasped, pointing up. "We found it!"

Mark came up into the gazebo, easily reaching up and unfastening the cache from its post. It made a rattling sound as he did so. "You're a natural for this," he said as they took a seat on the bench and he handed her the plastic box. It was rather heavy.

She popped open the plastic latches, then opened the box. Inside she found a small notebook and a handful of palm-sized flat rocks that had been beautifully hand-painted with traditional Incan motifs. She opened the notebook, which turned out to be a visitor's log. Grinning, she signed her name then handed it over for Mark to sign.

"Pick a rock," he said as he did. "We need to put the cache back so that if someone else comes looking for it, they can find it."

"Oh, yes, right," she said. She chose a rock with a red, orange and yellow sun painted on it. It would forever remind her of her winter spent in Peru's summer. She tucked it into her bag, and pulled out the camera, hoping for a few more photos of the lovely park on the way out.

Mark took the box back, clasped it shut, and reached up to fasten it back into its place with the bungee cord. Bridget walked the periphery of the gazebo, amused by the scrawled lovers' graffiti on the railing. _Things are the same all over_, she thought with a smile.

She sat down again, reached for a pen in order to add her and Mark's initials to the rail, when she spotted something that, in her opinion, didn't belong.

It was a series of letters that to her looked like a nonsense word, but she did not speak Spanish, so she could have been mistaken. In any case, it was not a pair of names encircled by a drawing of a heart; it was just two odd strings of letters connected with a plus sign made to look like lovers' graffitti, and that's what stood out to her. She lifted the camera and aimed down at the railing.

"Bridget," came Mark's voice suddenly. "What on earth are you doing? Not adding to the graffiti, I hope."

She literally jumped in her seat. "No!" she said quickly. "It was just kind of romantic, thinking of all of the couples who've sat here together." She smiled, hoping he would buy the explanation. "I just wanted a picture of it."

To her relief, he smiled, then sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and placing a kiss upon her temple. "It is a lovely spot, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes," she concurred. She was trying very hard to just enjoy the moment and not be distracted by thoughts of another clue in this weird little mystery, because she knew how silly Mark would think her if he figured out she was still pursuing it.

"You know, darling," he said, his cheek still pressed against her hair, "I'm very glad you talked me into this little wild goose chase."

She grinned.

He continued. "It's a nice little adventure for the two of us, gets us out of the house and walking around. We should look into geocaching at home when we get back."

She pulled back, meeting his eyes. "Are you serious?"

"Of course I am," he said, looking offended. "I thought you liked this."

"I do," she replied. "I am just surprised you do."

He blinked, then began to laugh. "Why would you be surprised?"

"Thought you thought it was child's play."

"I have to admit I thought the concept a little strange, but it's grown on me."

She smiled at him. "I'm glad."

"You don't have to make it sound like I always think your ideas are mad," he said, pulling her to him once more. "I especially like the ones that let me spend more time with you."

She snuggled into him.

"We should get going, though," he said abruptly. "Someone else may come to look for the cache." He stood and held out his hand to help her to her feet.

"Let me get my photo."

She turned, focused the camera, and snapped a few shots of the strange word. She could always try to figure out what it meant later.

………

Mark knew there was a reason that Bridget was taking that photo, one that had nothing to do with sentimentality or romance. He had his suspicions, because he knew Bridget did not willingly leave mysteries behind, and he had not forgotten her fascination with the mystery kiss-print in the book and the excursion to the statue of the lovers. The string of unusual letters had not escaped his notice, and he knew that was really the thing she was interested in.

He had no proof, of course; he just knew his wife too well.

"There," she said, apparently satisfied, repacking the camera back into her bag, restoring her sunglasses to her face. "We can head out now."

He grinned as she rose and took his hand, beaming up to him. When she looked up at him like that, it was hard to remember she was anything but a perfect little angel.

Cloud cover had turned a potentially too-hot day into one that was far more comfortable if still a little humid, and the walk back the library took them a little less time since they weren't consulting the GPS every five minutes. He fished his phone out of his pocket and pressed the speed dial for the driver on duty. It was Eduardo today, and he told them to give him five minutes. Upon disconnecting, he suggested they sit under the tree to wait. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held her close to him.

"Very good day," he said quietly.

"I'm exhausted now," she said. "No wonder they take siestas down here."

He chuckled. "We can have a lie-down when we get back to the house."

"I like that idea," she said. "Throwing open the windows, letting the breeze in, perfect summer day, which is entirely too weird for me in December."

Upon arriving back at the house, Bridget did exactly as she vowed: went up to the bedroom, opened the sashes on the windows so that the lightweight cotton curtains were lifting with every gust of air. She slipped out of her dress, out of her smalls, and in between the sheets, letting out a long sigh as she rested back on the pillow, closing her eyes. He was not far behind her. He stretched his arm over her, spooning up to her back; the fresh cool air, the cosy bed, and having his darling wife in his embrace all conspired to put him to sleep within moments.

When he woke he was surprised to find she was still fast asleep. He glanced to the clock; they had barely been asleep for an hour. She had turned in his arms and was now facing him, curled up close to his shoulder, hair draped across her cheek. Gingerly he brushed it away, saw her eyes moving in deep REM sleep, and she took in a deep breath.

Instead of exhaling, though, she made a very soft _Ohh_ sound.

He realised belatedly that she was wearing her nicotine patch. There was nothing to do about it than wake her up, and there was no better way to wake her up, in his opinion, than to plant a kiss on her lips.

"Mmm," she said, rousing from her nap, tightening her arm around him. "What was that for?"

"Hoping to be the man of your dreams," he said teasingly.

She blushed. He furrowed his brows.

"So, who then?" Mark asked.

"I'm not telling you."

"Bridget," he warned. "I can't think of a single reason why you'd not want to tell me."

She gazed unblinking into his eyes and then sighed. "Tony Blair."

Mark was sure he did not hear her correctly. "Are you telling me you wouldn't tell me because of Tony Blair?"

"No," she said. "I'm telling you that's who was in—"

"Tony Blair?" he asked, interrupting her. "Labour's Tony Blair?"

"I didn't want to tell you. This was why." She reached forward and kissed him. "He might be Labour, but he has nothing on you."

He kissed her in return. "Prove it," he said.

She did so, quite to his satisfaction.

………

_Bugger_, she thought. _We're going to be bloody late for supper._

She turned over and shook Mark's shoulder. "We slept too long," she said, her voice a little sleep-scratchy.

He woke with a start. "What time is it?"

"Five-thirty," she said.

"We'll be fine," he said, then smirked. "I would hardly call most of what's gone on here 'sleeping', however."

She pursed her lips, but couldn't suppress her smile. "Had a lovely day."

He rose from the bed, searching for his boxers and trousers. "Indeed. And to think we have the day tomorrow, too."

_Summer in December_, she thought. _Very fine idea._

Arriving into the main house Bridget was surprised to see additional company. It was Luis, the driver. "Ah, Señora Darcy," he said, getting to his feet. "I come to bring you this."

Bridget's mouth fell opened. It was her camera!

"Where did you find this?"

"Eduardo found it on the floor in the back seat of his car. As I was coming to bring Señor Santiago a folio he'd left in his office, I offered to bring the camera too."

If not for her distraction upon arriving home, she would have noticed its absence a lot sooner. "Oh my God. Thank you so much. I don't know what I would have done if I'd lost my camera."

He merely smiled warmly, bowing slightly at the waist. "My pleasure. Now if you will excuse me, I will leave you your supper." He bowed in that polite way again, once to Mercedes, and again to Esteban. "_Buenas noches_."

"_Adios_," said Mercedes, smiling, walking him to the door.

They all then convened in the dining room, the three of them taking their seats, and Mercedes serving, as she always insisted on doing. While she waited for her plate to be filled, Bridget pulled the camera out of its case. "That was so nice of him," said Bridget, turning on the camera, making sure her last series of photos was still intact on the memory card. It was; she fought the urge to sigh with relief. "I love this camera."

"It's nice to know there are still some decent people in the world," said Mercedes, "and that we have managed to have one of them working for us."

Bridget glanced to Mark, who had a subtle, bemused smile on his face. "Yes. That is nice to know."

………

As soon as his wife had said it, Esteban felt an unsettled feeling wash over him. He could not say a word for security reasons, but he knew that there was an internal investigation into possible corruption within the department; he did not even know who was under investigation. He wished he could contradict Mercedes in her feeling of well-being; he hoped that it would not turn out to be one of his own men.

………

_Sunday_

Sundays in Peru had become his favourite day of the week, as they afforded him the opportunity to wake without an alarm, laze in bed for a bit with his lovely wife before relaxing with coffee, breakfast and the newspaper. Today, however, as he laid and stared up at the brightening ceiling as the sun rose, Mark realised he was in something of a quandary. Esteban had advised him that his work would be finished by the end of the week, maybe sooner, and he already knew that Bridget wanted to stay through Christmas.

The question was: did he tell her now, or surprise her when he was finished?

Telling her would surely make her very, very happy, but would also make her impossible to live with, in the sense that she would ask him every chance she could if he was yet finished. Telling her when he was done, however, would accomplish both short- and long-term satisfaction.

_Yes_, he thought. _I'll tell her after we're finished. She'll be so pleased to have the rest of our time as a holiday._

"Penny for your thoughts?" came her sleepy voice, just to his right.

He turned over, offering her a smile, pulling her into a snuggle. "Just musing on how much I love Sundays here."

………

_Monday, end of week three_

S-A-J-O-R

O-R-R-A-F

Bridget's chin sat heavily in her palm. _What on earth could that even mean?_

She had taken the letters, switched them around like a crossword letter scramble, not able to make even the smallest of sense of them, in either English, or the limited Spanish she knew. A search on the internet had even failed to produce anything useful, in case it was some kind of highly specialised or local slang term. She'd even tried making words vertically and still, nothing. _Maybe I'm over-thinking this_, she thought. _Maybe it's nothing. Or maybe it's more complicated than I ever thought. Maybe there's some kind of letter swapping, like military ciphers or something else…_

_No_, she corrected herself. _If it was too complex, then it would be too hard to find without a key. The other clues were contained in context: the ISBN, the map, the GPS coordinates. I'm definitely over-thinking this._

She furrowed her brow, chewing on the end of her pen. She hadn't tried reversing the letters.

She then wrote them down opposite from how they'd appeared on the railing.

R-O-J-A-S

F-A-R-R-O

A glimmer of recognition sparked in the far recesses of her mind. _That's the word for red; I'm sure of it._ Adrenaline raced through her veins.

She glanced up. Mercedes was still working; it was not yet time to go. She punched in the words, hoping for a translation or some kind of local reference; all that came back was a list of people with that surname. She drew her brows together. Could it have been a person, not a place?

She ran another search; most of the hits were in Spanish, which she could not read, and which she dared not ask Mercedes about. She stared at it again, hoping for inspiration.

That was when she realised there was something else about this string of characters she had not consciously considered before that moment. She grinned, entering a search once again.

Success.

………

"Bridget," said Mark. "What is so bloody important that you can't wait until the weekend to do? Why can't you just go with Mercedes after the library shift?"

The phone was silent for a few minutes before she spoke. "Because it's something I'd prefer to do alone. I mean, without a chaperone."

"But what do you want to do?"

"See some sights, that's all," she said; the reason was flimsy and he knew it was probably not the whole truth.

"Can't I just take you after supper?"

"It'll be closed then, where I'd like to go. And Luis is a good guy, remember what Mercedes said? I'll be well watched after," she said. "You see? I am being good and letting you know and everything." He could tell she had a broad grin on her face.

"We… will talk about this later. Please, Bridget. Don't go running off and do something rash."

She sighed. "Yes, Mark."

He said his goodbyes and returned the phone to the cradle. He had mixed feelings about this request; she was a grown woman and should be allowed her freedom, but the possible danger to her in a country and a culture that was so foreign to her… she could be so trusting and so na√Øve in many ways, and while that was part of what he loved so much about her, it was also what triggered every rational and irrational protective instinct in him.

He was reminded, though, that even Mercedes had seemed to trust Luis.

………

It was so, so hard to be obedient, especially when it seemed she was so close to solving a mystery. It was true that she had no idea what the endgame would be, but she was really enjoying the journey. She would have been happy at that point to have found another pretty painted rock.

"Darling, can you pass me the sauce?"

She snapped from her reverie and looked at her husband, and before she had a chance to think better of it, she blurted, "Mark, let me go out on my own with Luis. Please."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mercedes look up; her expression was one of complete disapproval. "Bridget," said Mark darkly. "Not now."

"If there's something you want to do, dear girl, I'm sure my wife would be happy to take you," offered Esteban.

"She wants to go on her own."

"Oh, Bridget," said Mercedes. Bridget had to admit, she looked a little hurt. "I don't mind taking you."

"But you've been so kind to me already, I just wanted to give you a break from that," she said, hoping to make amends.

"I don't know," she said. "I'd feel better taking you on my own."

"But it's Luis. You said yourself he's a decent man. He brought me my camera back."

She sounded torn. "I suppose it will be between you and your husband," she said at last. "But please know it's no trouble at all for me to take you wherever you want to go."

Bridget smiled, suddenly feeling badly for any unkind thoughts she might have had about her babysitter-of-sorts. "Thank you—I do appreciate it."

Bridget dug into her supper, daring to glance to Mark. To her surprise, he seemed to be thinking it over. She smirked and ate her supper, and conversation turned to holiday planning.

"Are you staying through Christmas Day, then?" asked Mercedes.

"Yes, I think Bridget expressed an interest in spending the holiday in summer rather than winter," Mark said, smiling to her.

"I think it was you who mentioned the beach," she teased in return.

"Well of course we would be more than pleased to have you here," said Mercedes, veritably beaming. "Our girls are not able to travel back so we will feel blessed to have more than just us at our table."

"Then it is settled," Esteban said, smiling equally broadly.

………

It never ceased to amaze Mark how quickly and how much he could be roused into passion by his wife, and that night was no different. She truly was the balm for his stress and frustrations, and given the last remaining details of his work in Peru were proving to be the most tangled knots to work through, he needed that more than ever. As he regained his breath after a rather heated romp with her, she reared her head back and kissed him tenderly, tracing her soft fingers over the lines of his face. He sighed.

"Mark," she said, his name light and lyrical on her tongue. "So is it all right if I ask Luis tomorrow to take me somewhere?"

His eyes opened, struggling to focus, and he fought the urge to laugh. He had, after all, revealed his biggest weakness to her willingly. He reached his hand around to cradle her head in his palm. "This has to do with your mysterious so-called clues, doesn't it?"

The way she blanched, he knew that he had hit the mark.

"Will you at least let me know where you're going?"

"Mark," she said playfully. "Let me have my fun."

He sighed dramatically; he could always ask Luis afterwards. "I suppose, my love, that you can be allowed to have Luis take you on your secret mission."

Her smile was radiant, and she actually made a small, high-pitched sound of delight deep in her throat. "Thank you, Mark. You are the best."

"I do try," he teased; "At least I can trust you're not running off to someone else because you're not happy or satisfied here."

"You've got that right," she said, kissing him again, deeply and passionately, before stopping again. "Be sure to tell Mercedes I have your okay?"

He chuckled, then picked up where she left off.

………

_Tuesday_

Bridget had been sure to pack her camera, her mini-recorder, pocket notebook, sunglasses, sunhat and a bottle of water as she met Mercedes that morning.

"I'm all set to go," she said excitedly.

"How long will you be?"

"Probably no longer than your shift at the library," she said. "I promise."

"At least you're in good hands with Luis," said Mercedes confidently.

They got in the car, and after taking Mercedes to the library, Luis turned to her in the back seat. "So where is it that you'd like to go, Señora?"

"I'd like to visit the—and I'm sure I'm going to completely butcher this pronunciation—Presbítero Maestro."

"The cemetery?" he asked, furrowing his brows.

"Yes," she said confidently.

"I don't think you want to do that," he said sternly. "It's not a place for proper young women; it's haunted, filled with the sadness and spirits of the war dead."

"Chuh. That doesn't bother me. Besides, it's broad daylight. I'm hardly likely to be spooked in the middle of a summer morning."

He set off from the library. "If you insist," he said. "I can't imagine what business you have at the cemetery."

"It's for my column," she lied. "I'm here in Peru, I may as well write about the culture and so on."

She wasn't sure he bought it, but he continued driving, and said no more until they arrived at the car park. "I'll wait for you."

"Thanks," she said brightly. "I don't think I'll be long."

She wandered onto the site and only then realised how very large the cemetery was, almost all of it crypts and mausoleums. She reached into her bag for her notebook, where she'd scrawled down the crypt information for Cristobal Rojas Farro.

She had to ask a couple of people for help, and each of them gave her conflicting information, sending her on something of a tangent. At last she was face to face with the imposing fa√ßade of a neoclassical tomb bearing the name ROJAS FARRO, the two surnames joined with a decorative cross. The crypt was austere in appearance, and obviously not one that got much foot traffic, or maintenance for that matter; the marble was not in good shape, dirty and crumbling at the corners. Its wrought iron gate was hanging off of its hinges, falling apart; it was easy to gingerly step past the broken gate and into the crypt.

As she stepped through and into the crypt proper, Bridget wished she had brought a flashlight; it was black as pitch but a few steps in from the threshold. In lieu of a flashlight, she realised she could snap some pictures, then look at the display on the camera to see what was in there.

She dug into the bag, pulled out the camera, fired it up then snapped three times, once to her left, in front of her, then to her right. She then flipped the camera around, and noticed something in the picture to her right. She zoomed in.

It appeared to be a burlap bag, the sort that held rice in bulk. What was a bag of rice doing in a shoddy old mausoleum?

She took a step forward, and snapped another photo, then looked again. The burlap bag was hastily tied shut, and she could see plastic through the gap in the top. Within the plastic appeared to be something white. She stepped in again, took another picture, and looked again.

_Oh no_, she thought. _Not this again._

She then heard a sound behind her. Rapidly she turned, saw the figure of a man filling the doorway. Someone had known she would be there, and had waited to trap her.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Peruvian Affair**

Part 7 of 7 (and epilogue)

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 36,242 (This part: 5,855)

Rating: M / R

Disclaimer, Summary, etc. can be found in Part 1.

* * *

**Chapter 7.**

_Tuesday, cont._

It was finally done. Mark was proofreading the English version of the accord, while Esteban was doing the same for the Spanish version, and barring any changes, Mark's work was finished, with more than a week to go until Christmas. Except for the actual signing, he and Bridget could spend the rest of their time there on a proper holiday, celebrating Christmas together before travelling home afterwards. It was something he was very much looking forward to.

Mark had finished, and Esteban was nearly through when Esteban's mobile began to ring; he sighed heavily, said, "Excuse me, Mark," before answering. He spoke in a low voice, in Spanish, and the words he could not discern, but the change in expression concerned Mark enough to make him stop what he was doing.

He waited for Esteban to wrap up the call and close his phone; Esteban turned his gaze to Mark. He looked grave.

"That was Ricardo, head of the driving fleet. He had a call from my wife. Luis did not come to pick up my wife after her shift at the library. He can't be reached by the car phone."

"I don't understand."

"Luis is… unaccounted for," said Esteban. "Ricardo just pried open Luis' storage locker, and I'm afraid there's quite a bit of incriminating information in there. There's a warrant out for his immediate detainment."

Adrenaline flooded through him; he was on his feet without conscious thought. "Luis was with Bridget."

"Yes, I know."

Mark tried to quell the panic that bubbled up inside of him. "What is being done to find them?"

"Each car is equipped with a global positioning beacon. They are working on the location right now."

"They need to work faster, dammit." He ran his hands back through his hair. Never again would he second-guess his first instinct regarding her safety. If anything happened to her… "I need to find my wife, and find her now."

Esteban's phone rang again. He held up his hand, seeing the caller display, and said, "It's Ricardo." He answered it. "_Sí_," he said, then said more into the phone before closing it again and turning to Mark. "They've found the car. Come, he will take us there."

Mark slipped back into his suit jacket and followed Esteban out into the summer day.

"Where is it?" Mark asked, as they hurriedly walked to the sleek black sedan, then climbed into the back seat. Ricardo raced away from the kerb and into traffic.

"It's in a lot at Presbítero Maestro."

"Which is what?"

"A very old military cemetery."

Mark felt dizzy. How would they ever find the two of them? What if they had left the car and continued somewhere else on foot?

"The police are meeting us there," assured Esteban. "They will make sure your Bridget is safe and sound." Esteban raised his hand and patted Mark's shoulder reassuringly. "There was no way you could have known. Luis was my senior driver. I never suspected a thing, never knew it could possibly have been him that had been under investigation."

"Someone was being investigated?" Mark asked, his temper flaring.

"Unfortunately, yes," said Esteban. "I did not know who, and I could not reveal the fact that there was an investigation. I am deeply sorry—if anything happens to that dear girl I will never forgive myself."

Esteban looked so traumatised, so forlorn, that Mark could not help but feel for the man. Betrayed by what he thought was a loyal employee, possibly hurting the wife of a foreign guest… "You couldn't have guessed, Esteban," said Mark.

Esteban sighed, then smiled wanly. "All I can say is, they had better not leave Luis alone in a cell with my wife," said Esteban.

The trip to the car park seemed to go on forever; once the engine was disengaged Mark threw his door open without waiting for someone to do it for him. He squinted in the bright midday light, looked across at building after building, and suddenly felt all hope leave him. If they were still on the premises, it was going to take forever to canvass each of these tombs, and that was assuming they didn't move to another one in the interim.

"Mark, come. Follow me."

"Where are we going?"

"We're going to see if any of the staff saw Bridget. She's rather different looking from most of the people here."

Mark looked around, and realised Esteban was right. Most everyone in sight else had dark hair, olive skin; Mark also tended to tower over the majority of the people around him, which was a definite advantage. He also knew he would know his wife on sight if it came to it.

Walking briskly with Esteban and Ricardo, they strode purposefully until they found someone bearing a staff badge. There was a rapid conversation in Spanish, and the staff member pointed in a definite direction. After another bout of hurried walking, they then found another staff person, and a similar conversation occurred, with this person pointing in an entirely different direction.

Mark cursed under his breath, at both his frustration at not being able to understand the entire conversation, as well as the conflicting directions they were being given. "Are they saying she was taken to a specific building?"

Ricardo spoke up. "They are saying she was not _taken_ anywhere. She was on her own, looking for one of the lesser-known mausoleums."

_This place was Bridget's destination?_ Mark thought. He was perplexed. "Which one? Doesn't anyone have a map of this place?"

"Let me find out." Esteban pulled out his phone and punched in a number. After a brief conversation, he hung up again. "I've told the police chief where we are, and where we need to be. They'll have officers here soon to take us there."

_Finally_, he thought. _Action._ Mark was, however, apprehensive about finding the tomb, because what would be their next step if she was not there?

After an interminable few minutes, the police where there, and they charged forth in the direction of the first guide. They rounded a corner, then another, until finally the police began slowing down, sidling up against the edges of the path, until they finally flanked the decrepit old iron gate of a mausoleum bearing the name ROJAS FARRO. Using hand signals, the police indicated they were going to enter the vault. Drawing their guns, they crept forward, through the broken gate and into the building.

One by one the police stood down from their confrontational stance. Mark's heart fell into his shoes; the crypt was empty… or so he thought, until the lead policeman emerged from the crypt with a smile on his face. "_Ella está segura,_" was all he said. He then looked directly at Mark and waved him over.

All of the breath rushed out of his lungs. He didn't speak much Spanish, but Mark knew what that meant. _She is safe._

He ran as quickly as he could to the crypt, ducking through the gate and inside. The police had shone a bright light onto the scene. On the ground was a clearly unconscious Luis; sitting next to his head was Bridget's carrier bag, damp with water, and the ground beside his head was damp too. He then saw Bridget standing there. She turned to the door. Tears filled her eyes, and in seeing Mark, she ran into his arms.

He held her close, burying his nose into her hair, fought back the tears himself. "Are you all right?" he asked desperately.

"I'm fine," she said. "I think I broke my camera, though."

He laughed. He was so relieved at her nonchalance that he couldn't help himself. "You're not hurt?"

"No, just bloody scared shitless by first him—" She pointed at Luis. "—then the police scared me. I thought it was his men, with guns."

"What happened?" It was Esteban, who placed one hand on each of their shoulders in a very reassuring manner.

"I came into here without a torch and started taking pictures to find my way around," she explained. "Then he came in and tried to trap me in here. So I blinded him with the flash then swung my bag at him. Hit him in the head and knocked him out. But the force broke the plastic water bottle and splashed water all over my camera. I think it might be dead now."

"I'll buy you a hundred new cameras, Bridget," said Mark, holding her close again. "All that matters is that you're all right."

Esteban asked, "But why was he trying to trap you in here?"

"Oh," she said, pushing back from Mark. "That." She pointed to a huge stone planter, in which was a large dead plant, then said with a great sigh, "A giant stash of cocaine. Again."

………

The police of course wanted to talk to Bridget about how she happened to know about the hidden cache of drugs in a forgotten old mausoleum. She asked to detour back to the house for her laptop and big notebook. After doing so, they went to the station; she showed the police every step of the way she'd followed the trail from the book, to the map, to the statue, to the gazebo, then finally to the tomb. She laid out the papers—the photocopy of the map with the kiss print on it, then, having recovered the memory card from her camera, showed all of the pictures to them, the photos of the numbers on _El Beso_, the graffiti in the gazebo, and the rice-bag of drugs. Bridget speculated too that Luis had spied on her in the library during her search for the geological survey book and that he'd browsed through her photos on her camera to see what she was up to, though she had no proof of either.

At the end, she smiled very proudly; the police too seemed impressed. She noticed that Mark looked proud, too, and her smile broadened.

After hours in the station, they left with Ricardo to head back to the Santiagos' home. "You know," said Esteban, "when this goes to trial, Bridget will end up being the star witness."

"No," said Mark, startling Bridget. "She can give depositions where needed, but the presence of the drugs and your own internal investigation would be ample evidence to convict Luis. Besides, after the whole episode with the dismissed charges in Thailand, I would not want that to affect your case, and I certainly would not want her to be cross-examined on the witness stand."

"You make an excellent point, Mark," replied Esteban.

"I am standing right here, you know," she said, bringing her brows together.

"I know, love," said Mark, grasping her around the shoulder, pulling her into him. "I was speaking in my capacity as your legal advisor." He then planted a kiss into her hair.

She had a hard time staying miffed at him when he did that.

"I'll at least get my scoop," she said, smiling smugly. "This will make an excellent series of columns."

"You will do no such thing," said Mark sharply. "For your own safety, and for the sake of a good, clean prosecution."

"But Mark—"

"I will brook no opposition on this, Bridget. Final word. End of story."

She pouted, bristling once more.

"As your legal advisor," he added; his voice then softened: "and more importantly, as your husband, who loves you more than life itself."

She could hardly argue that point with him.

They arrived at the house, and as they approached the front door, Bridget said wistfully, "It would have made such a wonderful series."

"I know you would have done a spectacular job with it, my love," he said, tightening his hand around hers. "It would hardly fit in with your usual light fare for your paper. Maybe once all of the dust has settled you can, I don't know, write a book about it."

She stopped in her tracks, looking up to him with a broad grin.

For his part, he looked like he was sorry he'd said a thing.

All further discussion was put on hold the moment they crossed the threshold and into the front room. "Bridget!" came Mercedes' shrill voice. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she replied. "I'm fine."

She embraced the younger woman. "I'm so glad to hear. Esteban called me to tell me why you'd be late for dinner." She released her suddenly, looking very stern, her voice tight and strained. "I should have known to go with my instinct and not trust you with anyone but me!"

Mark cleared his throat.

Smoothly Mercedes added, "Or your husband, or mine, but next time you will listen, _sí_?"

………

Of all the people to give Bridget a parental-type talking-to, Mark would have thought it would have been himself, not the wife of his friend and co-worker. He watched the myriad of emotions wash over Bridget's face: amusement, disbelief, irritation, and extreme offence.

Mark stepped in to reply. "Next time we will both listen, Señora, to your very seasoned advice."

Mercedes seemed mollified; for that matter, Bridget did as well. "Thank you, Mark," said Mercedes. "Now, let us eat, and celebrate the safe return of our dear girl Bridget."

Bridget gave Mark a flashing look of... well, he could not tell if it was surprise or horror; Mark only stifled a smile. It would seem that Bridget was thought of as an adopted daughter whether she liked it or not.

They had a pleasant supper, though Mark had a hard time keeping from touching his wife in some way, so elated, so grateful that she was safely by his side. Mercedes had popped open a bottle of sparkling wine and brought out dessert to celebrate the happy event, and there was much joy and laughter at the dinner table.

Even though she had only had one glass of fizzy, Mark observed Mercedes place her hand to her forehead as she said, "_Dios mio_. I should have known better than to have this, as much as I love it. You will, I hope, forgive me for being such a, _como se dice_, 'lightweight'… and wanting to go straight to bed."

Mark chuckled. "It's quite all right. We've had a rather trying day, and will want to retire early, too." He looked to Bridget, who was, with her third glass half empty, looking a bit squiffy though happily so.

"Thank you once again for an amazing dinner," said Bridget. "And thank you for taking such good care of us." Bridget got a little teary. "I will miss you both."

"It has been a great pleasure," said Esteban. "It would appear, though, that I need to take my wife upstairs. Please pardon us."

He rose, helped Mercedes to her feet, and gingerly helped her out of the dining room; moments later they heard footsteps on the stairs and a light, feminine giggle.

"What do you say?" asked Bridget with a sly smile. "Ready to help _your_ wife upstairs?"

"Whenever she needs it," replied Mark, "and even when she doesn't."

Bridget got to her feet, wobbling a little; he was quick to slip his hand around her waist, then escort her into the attached cottage.

As they approached their own stairs, Bridget said in a slightly more melancholy tone, "I'm sorry I did everything right and still managed to go missing and worry you."

He planted a kiss into her hair. "Nice to be welcomed home without a lecture from your overprotective husband, isn't it?" he teased.

He heard her chuckle. "I'm still sorry."

"I know you are, darling," he said, turning to take her in his arms. "If you like I can still give you a scolding about listening to the wisdom of your elders when it comes to your personal safety."

"Only if I get to counter-scold and remind you that I've been living in London most of my adult life and can take care of myself."

"Right. Like climbing a flight of stairs while tiddly." He dipped down, scooped her up under her knees, then began ascending the stairs. "Fair enough. I'll carry you off to your room to make the whole thing right and proper."

She laughed as she threaded her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

Once upstairs, he set her down on the bed and just took in the sight of her; she looked incredibly gorgeous and slightly browned from spending time in the bright summer sun, streaks of near-white blonde through her tresses, blue eyes shining. "What?" she asked of him.

"Just appreciating how lucky I am, is all," he said, before reaching for her and letting her know precisely how much he appreciated her.

………

Bridget's head was still swimming a little as she lay on the bed next to him; cool summer-evening air drifted across her skin, raising goosebumps, and she turned to curl up to him. Dozing, he woke to look at her with a smile.

"Have I mentioned lately how glad I am to have you here with me?" he said.

"Just about every day," she murmured, pushing herself up on her elbow to gaze down into his eyes. "Have I mentioned how much I love being here with you, chaperones and your being gone all day five-and-a-half days a week notwithstanding?"

He merely offered a crooked smile before saying, "Just about every night."

"Speaking of being gone… ugh. Might as well set your vile alarm clock now while I'm thinking of it."

He closed his eyes. "Nope."

She knit her brows. "What do you mean, 'nope'?"

"I mean I don't have to. Esteban and I finished today."

Her mouth dropped open. "Don't tease me."

"I would never tease when it came to the prospect of holiday time."

He was right. He wouldn't.

He then added, "I will have to spend about a half-hour finishing the final read-through because my earlier effort was interrupted when I got word that Luis had gone missing."

She was beyond elated. "I can sacrifice one additional half-hour in the name of the rest of our stay being a holiday." She dove upon him and kissed him passionately and at length. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Giving me the best news I've had all day."

He chuckled. "It even outstrips being practically single-handedly responsible for helping to crush an illicit drug ring?"

"I was doing that for fun," she said. "It just so happened to have a really out-there conclusion. Now." She crawled forward. "Since there is no alarm clock to pay heed to, I intend on making the most of my time with you tonight."

"Thought you already did that—"

He had started his retort with a teasing tone, but stopped when she proved that she was sincere in her intention.

………

It was less than a week from Christmas, and the weather was perfect: sunny, cloudless blue sky, and a cool breeze moving idly through the air. Bridget sat dozing in the sun, determined to get a little bit browner before returning to grey, wintry England, while Mark sat in the shade reading a book for pleasure, as he'd been unable to do for some time.

"Bridget," he called idly, not looking up from his book. "You should get out of the sun before you get burned."

"Just a little longer on the back," she called in reply.

"Hm," he muttered, then continued reading.

He looked up again and realised she had not moved, had in fact fallen asleep, and the skin the back of her body, where exposed, looked quite pink. "Bridget!" he shouted, startling her awake. "You're as red as a fire engine. Get out of the sun."

She scrambled off of the seat and into the shade where he sat. "Is it that bad?" she asked, turning her back to him, looking at him over her shoulder.

He placed his hand upon her bottom, then took it away. "Very hot to the touch," he said, raising his eyes to look at her. "You should go take a cool bath at once."

She pouted. "Come and keep me company?"

He gathered his book up and rose, brushing his fingers along her pink shoulder. "I'll even apply some burn gel if needed," he said. She smiled up at him.

He sat in the bathroom with her as she soaked in the cool water; at her request, he read passages of his book aloud to her.

"I could never be a lawyer facing you in court," she said upon the conclusion. "I'd be too enamoured of your voice."

"I don't typically use such a nice voice in court," he said, grinning. "How's your skin? Feeling better?"

"It feels all right, I guess." She turned over in the water, and it was obvious even still that she had a bit of a sunburn. "How does it look?"

"I think we're going to need some aloe vera," he said. "After all, we can't have you in dire pain for a very long flight back to London."

"Not to mention other things," she said, pursing her lips, a smirk sneaking through.

"Let me see what Mercedes has available."

He traversed over to the other house and found Mercedes chopping fruit in the kitchen. She did in fact have some sunburn cream. "This should heal the skin," she said, "and cool the burn."

"Thank you."

"I saw her lying out there, and I had a feeling she might overdo it," said the woman with a grin. "She doesn't do things by halves, does she?"

Mark chuckled. "No, she doesn't."

"Would you like dinner in your own suite tonight?"

He had the suspicion that she was suggesting this so that he wouldn't have to ask, which he'd been awfully tempted to do. Christmas was approaching, and then a couple of days beyond that they'd be on their way home.

By the time he'd come back to their room, she had gotten out of the bath, towelled herself off, and was waiting for him on the bed, completely naked and lying on her stomach. "Hope you found something."

"I did." He held up the small jar of cream.

"Can I trouble you to…" she began, then shot a look back over her own shoulder to indicate her burned backside. He sat at her side.

"What would make you think that was any trouble or inconvenience on my part?" he said with a smile, then unscrewed the jar, dipped his fingers in, and scooped up the gel. After smearing it between his two hands, he got to work covering every inch of pink with the cooling gel.

"Mmm," she said as he rubbed the gel into her calves. "That feels so much better."

"Maybe you'll listen next time when I tell you to get out of the sun," he teasingly lectured.

"It's totally worth it," she said. "It will be a point of pride to say I have a sunburn to everyone back home. _In December_."

………

_Christmas Eve_

They had been to at least one Christmas party every night for three nights with the Santiagos, whose friends seemed fascinated at the curiosity of their English friends. Most of them had a good grasp of English, being that many of them also had positions that put them into contact with English-speakers. They had an excellent time at each of them, imbibing fantastic vintages of wine, amazing food, and incredible nativity spreads; the following morning sleeping far too long, lounging in bed much too late, only to get up and preen for another fete.

_Well_, thought Bridget. _We are on holiday now._

Squeezed into these jam-packed days had been more sightseeing and shopping excursions, for what would Christmas be without gifts to give? She also found, to bring home for future Christmases, a nativity scene carved from soapstone, comprised of figures dressed in the style of the sixteenth-century conquistadores. Mercedes advised that she would be happy to help expand the scene by sending new figures in the coming years, as was the custom.

Bridget advised she would like that very much. Mercedes and Esteban themselves had quite an impressive cr√®che scene.

Tonight, though, their plate was full; they were to attend Midnight Mass with the Santiagos, place the Jesus figure into the manger, then exchange their gifts with their hosts as the sound of firecrackers filling the night air. Mercedes had explained the custom so frequently Bridget felt it was planned to the minute.

Now, however, between supper and leaving for the Mass, Bridget and Mark had a moment to themselves.

"It really has been a wonderful time," she called from the bathroom, pulling the elastic out of her hair, then brushing through it. The day had been a hot one, it being just past summer solstice, and it was just starting to cool down enough to dress in more than just a sleeveless sundress. Mark came to stand next to her at the bathroom sink, slipping his hand around her waist, meeting her reflection's gaze.

"I would never want to encourage premature aging or courting melanoma," he said with a smirk, "but you look absolutely gorgeous glowing with that bit of sun."

She smirked in return. "Shaz and Jude will be so envious of us." Despite his staying in the shade most of the time while out on the patio, it was not as if Mark had not had an opportunity to acquire a little colour himself. "You look very well-rested and happy."

He turned and placed a kiss into her locks. "That I am."

"It would have been nice to stay through Epiphany," she said, "but I'm not sure I could take that much more frogmarching from party to party."

"Yes," he said. "The Turkey Curry Buffet will be a breeze after all of this."

She laughed lightly. "Don't get me wrong," said Bridget. "I've been having a lovely time."

"You're really in your element at these parties," he interjected.

She turned to look up into his eyes. "I'm glad to have you to myself for a couple of hours. It's been days since I have." She popped up on her toes to place a light kiss on his lips, then asked, "Would it be sacrilegious to go to Midnight Mass in a state of shag-drunkenness?"

He appeared thoughtful. "Well," he said at last. "We _are_ married. I think the baby Jesus would understand."

She laughed as he took her in his arms.

………

_**Epilogue.**_

New Year's Eve was the first day Bridget was starting to feel herself again after the flight back to England, and she was thankful for it, as she had a houseful coming over for a belated Christmas family dinner. She was cooking a few of the Peruvian recipes that Mercedes had given to her and she had helped to previously prepare. After the scoffing she'd gotten Bridget was determined to turn the sceptics into believers.

Leaving Peru had been bittersweet; she'd had a wonderful time and really had come to love the Santiagos like family, but her own mother wasn't nearly as protective or as regimental as Mercedes was. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day had proven that in spades: Mercedes had been very specific about the order of events after Mass, with the placing of Jesus in the manger, the presentation of the _Noche Buena_ stockings, the gift exchange. All of that she had expected. Christmas Day, however, was similar if not worse, with attending Christmas Day festivities in Lima—including a procession of a statue of the Virgin Mary and a then a bullfight!—followed by an epic, nightlong dinner of turkey, tamales, what seemed like a thousand types of salad and fruitcake for dessert.

Pam Jones and her stirred gravy would in future be welcome relief after that.

That was not to say she wasn't grateful for the experience or their hospitality. She was just glad to have her life back; the life in which she was an adult running her own household, in a manner of speaking.

"How are things going?"

It was Mark, undoubtedly checking up on her kitchen progress, though earlier he'd claimed he would never do such a thing.

"Excellently," she said. "the _sancochado_ is on a low heat, simmering, and the _pallares_ are just about ready to come off the heat." She thought that the _sancochado_, a beef and vegetable stew, would be just the thing for a cold winter's day.

"You'd better watch out," said Mark. "You're going to give Nick either a run for his money, or a heart attack from shock."

"Oh hush," she said with a proud smirk, reflecting on the last time she'd cooked for Christmas, stirring the bowl of salsa that the beans would go into once chilled.

"So did you bring all of these ingredients back with you from Peru? Because our luggage sure felt like it had a few cassavas and yams in it."

"No, silly. Just the lime juice and the bottles of _pisco_." She turned and punched him lightly in the arm, just as a timer went off. "If you wouldn't mind getting the cake out of the oven, I need to tend to the butter beans."

"Cake?"

"Dessert," she said. "Chilli-chocolate cake."

"Naturally." He set the cake down onto the cooling rack as she drained the beans into a colander. She was very much looking forward to their dinner party that night. She even had all of the ingredients to fix _pisco_ sours after dinner. Shaz was going to love them.

"Is there anything else I can do?" Mark asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," said Bridget, turning back to Mark. "You can clean up the kitchen."

"Fair enough," he said, feigning great despair. "I did ask."

To be perfectly honest, she had an ulterior motive: she quite liked his company as he did so.

………

"Well. I'm afraid there's no getting around it." He touched his table napkin to his mouth then turned steely blue grey eyes to Bridget. "You, my child, can cook."

Mark watched as Bridget beamed the proudest smile he'd ever seen her offer, as murmurs of assent rounded the table: both of their sets of parents, his brother Peter, his uncle Nick, and friends Hugh, Sharon, Jude, Tom, and Magda and Jeremy.

"Thank you, Uncle Nick," said Bridget modestly at last. "I had a really good, patient teacher in Señora Santiago."

Nick raised his glass of wine. "To this miraculous Señora Santiago," he said, "and to Bridget, for another spectacular Christmas dinner."

"Hear, hear," said Colin, beaming with fatherly pride.

"This is fu—er, very good," said Sharon, biting her tongue on her vulgarity of choice, eating another chunk of beef. "Don't think I've ever had Peruvian cuisine before."

"I am going to definitely want this recipe," said Magda, pointing excitedly, "and any others you might have gotten from your friend."

"They may be coming to visit in the summer," said Mark. "After all, they gave us respite during our long grey winter… seemed only right to offer likewise." Bridget smiled. Despite her reservations about the prospect, in the long run, it had seemed the right thing to offer to them. The Santiagos had very enthusiastically embraced the idea.

Dinner dishes were cleared away, and dessert presented; raving over the chilli-chocolate cake and the _pisco_ sours went on long after the cake and drinks were actually devoured.

"So I hear, Bridget, that you had a bit of an adventure whilst in Peru," Peter asked.

If Mark had been close enough, he would have kicked Peter in the shin for bringing up the subject. Bridget's eyes went wide and she nodded. "Oh yes," she said, then continued in a very serious tone, "but it's all very hush-hush. You can't tell a soul."

"Why not?"

"Because the case hasn't gone to trial yet—"

"—and isn't likely to for some time, with the way the wheels of justice move in Peru," added Mark, shooting a look to Peter, who did, for his part, look contrite.

Bridget then launched into the tale of her little goose-chase, from the book in the English-language section of Lima's library all the way to the cache of cocaine in the abandoned crypt. There was a definite delineation of reaction between family and friends: her friends sat open-mouthed but intrigued and a little jealous for the adventure, while for the most part the family looked a little horrified.

"I cannot believe you put yourself at such risk," admonished Nick at the conclusion of the story. "You really should have known better and listened to your husband and to your hosts."

"Mark said I could go with Luis," she said defensively.

"I have already expressed regret for that moment of weakness," Mark shot back.

"That sounded like bloody good fun," said Tom, his eyes twinkling.

"Fun?" said Pam Jones. "She could have been kidnapped for real!"

"Oh, Mum," said Bridget. "I've told you a hundred times that I can take care of myself."

Nick not only looked dubious, but was about to voice his lack of agreement when another voice cut in:

"All's well that ends well," said Hugh. "Didn't bring any nasty tropical bugs back with you this time, did you, Bridget?"

That seemed to be enough to shift the subject, and for that, Mark was thankful. He had a feeling that Nick would not let the subject go without further address, but had enough tact to know that now was not the time or the place. Nick would have his chance at the Turkey Curry Buffet the next day, though Mark didn't expect to escape the evening unscathed for the 'moment of weakness'.

As the Grafton Underwood contingent readied themselves for the drive back—Pam Jones had much preparation to do for the next day, and they had all driven up together—Nick got his chance.

"So what possessed you to give that child permission to run off with a strange man?" he said in a low tone.

"He wasn't a strange man," said Mark. "He was someone the Santiagos had had driving for them for years. They trusted him, so I did as well."

Nick made a dismissive sound.

"I have learned my lesson," Mark said contritely.

At that, Nick looked almost appeased. Almost.

"I'll see the both of you tomorrow at Pam's… party?" Nick asked; Mark knew that Nick did not entirely approve of the party or the cuisine served, but was good enough to attend anyway as Bridget's in-law.

"Yes, Nick."

Nick turned and gave his nephew a quick hug. "Good to have you back," Nick said quietly, before going to find Bridget. He gave her a hug and peck on the cheek goodnight, which seemed to surprise her. Bridget saw them to the door and upon meeting up with her husband again, explained that Nick had beaten her to the punch with the kiss on the cheek.

"There's a first for everything, I guess," Mark joked in return.

The dinner party then turned into a little New Year's soiree of sort; instead of leaving for Stratford, Hugh was persuaded to stay the night in the spare room. Mark went to his wine cellar, found and opened a bottle of sparkling wine. He knew his head would likely not thank him the next day for the amount and mixture of alcohols, but New Year's Eve only happened once a year, and he was lucky to be surrounded by friends and family; it was indeed something worth celebrating.

_The end._


End file.
